


Ideal Father

by Honeybeebatch



Series: Ideally [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Abandonment, Babies, Baby Holmes - Freeform, Baby Maeve, Babysitting, Case Fic, Child Abandonment, Daddy Sherlock, Dysfunctional Family, Eventual Romance, Family, Family Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Holmes Brothers, Holmes Family, Kidnapping, Lestrade is good at his job, Multi, Mycroft Being a Good Brother, Mycroft IS the British Government, Mycroft is a good uncle, Occasioanlly POV Mycroft, Parent Sherlock, Parenthood, Parentlock, Paternal Lestrade, Protective Lestrade, Protective Mycroft, Sherlock Holmes Has a Heart, Sherlock is a Good Parent, Single Parents, Slow Build, Uncle Mycroft
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-04-11
Updated: 2018-03-03
Packaged: 2018-03-22 09:22:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 65
Words: 193,800
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3723622
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Honeybeebatch/pseuds/Honeybeebatch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock's life is turned upside down when he finds a baby on the doorstep to 221B; his baby. He surprises everybody and himself with his natural abilities as a single parents but raising a child always has it's challenges. Luckily enough he's not alone.</p><p> </p><p>"He stepped back into the house, ready to slam the door shut.</p><p>A soft whine stopped him. Sherlock furrowed his brows, reopening the partially shut door to look back outside. Another soft whine caught his attention, the consulting detective looked down at the source.  </p><p>A baby."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

 

**Chapter One: Two Days Old**

 

Sherlock let out a long exhale of boredom. The consulting detective was reclined on the sofa, still dressed in his dark blue shirt and suit pants, with his deep red wine coloured dressing gown untied.

The curly haired man was bored out of his mind despite finishing a case not two hours previous. It was long enough to keep him occupied for the majority of the day but not long enough that he would binge on Chinese takeaway and crash afterwards.

The doorbell rang.

Followed by knock at the door captured Sherlock’s attention, his eyes widening and head shooting up in similar fashion to a dog’s when intrigued. It must be urgent for them to have rung to doorbell and knocked. But it was too late for a client. Mycroft would just let himself in and Lestrade would use the key John had given him, to stop him from banging the door down.

Mrs Hudson was visiting her sister and John on a date with the woman with bottle blonde hair that he met a Scotland Yard the day before. The consulting detective sighed, rising to his feet in a matter of seconds, stepping over the table and rushing down the stairs – his red dressing gown billowing behind him dramatically.

Sherlock rushed down the stairs, sock clad feet patting against the carpet on the wooden floors as he made his way to the door. He pulled the black painted door open, a rush of air hitting him in the face forcing his hair off of his forehead as he was faced with no-one.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes peering outside of the door. The street was isolated, not a person in sight apart from someone climbing out of a cab a few metres down the street and a few cars passing. _Curious_ , he thought to himself. He risked looking up at the sky despite knowing there was no reason to, nothing there either.

He stepped back into the house, ready to slam the door shut.

A soft whine stopped him. Sherlock furrowed his brows, reopening the partially shut door to look back outside. Another soft whine caught his attention, the consulting detective looked down at the source.  

A baby.

There was a baby wrapped in a bundle of blankets on his doorway. Sherlock blinked in disbelief, this had to be some kind of illusion, a joke of some sort. The baby was still there. Looking up at him with wide blue eyes and pouty lips, cheeks rosy from the cold evening air.

He knelt down, pushing his dressing gown out from behind him to avoid treading on it. A similar action that he did with his coat, no reason to dirty it. The baby’s eyes widened slightly, blue orbs following his movement and lips twitching slightly.

It was cold, whoever left the baby there had obviously known that the door would be answered and had hurried away, with no obvious hiding places she must have ran down the street. Whoever it was must have been aware that he would be in, most likely because of the light from the window. They’d wrapped the baby in blankets, so they didn’t want the baby to come to harm but had no quarrels with leaving the baby outside to face the elements. Abandonment then. Someone had abandoned the baby on his doorstep.

It seemed quite content, so fed and changed recently before being left here. A hat on its head. Pink. A girl then. A small wisp of dark hair peeking from beneath the knitted hat, curled slightly and eyebrows dark, like her lashes. Eyes blue, deep blue, bright. Most babies had blue eyes though, not a clue.

The baby repeated its earlier whine sound, a sound of discomfort on the verge of crying.

Sherlock reached out, hesitantly. Large hands reaching round to cradle the baby’s head – he may not know much about children but he was well aware of how a baby could not support its own head, it was fragile – and the other hand reached beneath her to grab her body. She was small, almost fitting entirely in his hands with the padding of the blankets. She made a sound at being moved, barely audible. He pulled her to his chest. A envelope lay on the floor – wet from the cold ground, hidden under the baby’s body – Sherlock shifted the baby to rest on one arm, head on his elbow and body supported by the rest of his long arm. He picked up the envelope with her free arm.

It was larger, A5 in size. A cheap envelope but felt full, with more than one sheet of paper. His name was scribbled on the front. He turned round, back into the warmth of Baker Street, kicking the door shut with his right leg.

“Who are you?” He asked. Not talking to the baby in particular but to himself, it helped the brain process. But if it comforting the child then that wasn’t exactly a bad thing. He made his way back upstairs with the baby held securely in his arm, turning the letter over curiously as he walked. “Hmmm” he hummed, thoughtfully.

He walked back into the empty lounge. He should really call someone, like John, John couldn’t be angry with him for calling if he had an actual reason. But Lestrade would be the obvious choice, being a policeman or Mycroft but that wasn’t going to happen. Sherlock placed the letter on the desk and pulled his phone from his trouser pocket. He dialled John. He never called, the doctor would know it was important.

The phone rang four time before being picked up. Sherlock spoke immediately, not wasting time. “John, you need to come home.”

“ _I’m on a date Sherlock”_ The army doctor hissed down the phone, obviously still at the restaurant with her then. Trying to seem calm but angry.

“But I’m calling, I didn’t text.”

“ _And is it an emergency_?”

“Yes” Sherlock pouted. “Otherwise I wouldn’t be calling.”

“ _What is this emergency?”_ Sherlock could practically hear John scrubbing a hand over his face in annoyance and sending an apologetic look to his date.

 _“_ I found a baby on the doorstep” He glanced down at the child in his arms, she was still awake but fighting off sleep.

“ _A baby?”_ John repeated, unsure.

“Yes a baby” Sherlock scoffed. “A child that has recently been born, the product of reproducing.”

“ _I know what a baby is Sherlock?”_ John breathed down the phone. “ _Why is there a baby?”_

“She can’t talk John and I’m not a mind reader” Sherlock snapped. “She was abandoned, obviously and there’s a note but I can’t open it with just one hand.”

“ _Alright, I’m coming Home_.” The blogger announced, having had enough of Sherlock’s over the phone explanation. He’d get more answers at the flat.

“Good.” He told John before hanging up and throwing his phone in the direction of the sofa. He looked again at the baby in his arms, now close to sleep.

Small, one week old. His chest constricted slightly. He’d seen cases of abandonment before but never with a new-born, she was just out of hospital is the regulation baby grow and blanket were anything to go by. The mother had literally left the hospital and dumped her baby. She looked…well, she looked like him. Dark hair and blue eyes, sharp little cheekbones beneath plump cheeks. It was like looking at one of his baby photographs.

Shit. This was not good. His eyes flicked over to the letter on the table. His name standing out in black ink against the off-white envelope.

Nine months, he closed his eyes (jiggling slightly without realising) and thought back nine months.

There was a woman. Blonde, tall with tanned skinned and a French accent. She was visiting her parents in London and he met her at a bar, after a fight with John. It had only happened the once but apparently that was enough, going by the baby bundled in his arms.

Shit…Shit…Shit.

This was definitely not good.

Sherlock looked down at the sleeping baby and exhaled. “Well, this is definitely a bit not good.”

 

* * *

 

 

“Sherlock” John called out as he ran up the stairs, hurried.

“Shhh” The consulting detective scolded. He was sat on the sofa, one leg crossed elegantly over the other with the baby cradled in his arms, fast asleep and snoring gently against his chest.

John stopped as he reached the door. “Sherlock” The army doctor exhaled at the sight of the consulting detective, still in his clothes with his wine red dressing gown over the top, a baby in a white blanket held in his long arms. She was asleep and wearing a small pink hat, a dark curl peeking out from beneath it. Red face scrunched up slightly.

“Thank God you’re home” Sherlock muttered softly, throwing his head back against the back of the sofa exaggeratedly, hitting the wall with a soft thud.

John paused. “What the hell is going on Sherlock?” He asked softly, sighing and coming to sit on the coffee table in front of the consulting detective.

“I believe” Sherlock started, clearing his throat and cradling the baby to his chest a little tighter when she released a gentle whine of discomfort. “I believe that I may have done something….imprudent.”

“Imprudent?” John repeated questioningly, raising an eyebrow. This was the closest thing to admitting he was wrong.

Sherlock lifted his head to look at John. “There is a letter on the desk. It will explain that she is…mine.”

John frowned, his mouth opening and closing. “Yours?”

The ex-army doctor lent forward and craned his neck to look at the sleeping baby, her little nose scrunched in sleep and eyes closed, lips moving gently like she was suckling the air. “The result of a one night stand” Sherlock clarified.

“She’s the image of you” John observed, still watching the tiny baby sleep in his friends arms.

“Nine months ago, there was a woman” Sherlock admitted. He looked slightly ashamed of himself, something John wasn’t used to seeing but he didn’t mention it.

“We should have her checked out” John told him.

“Hmmm” Sherlock hummed in agreement.

“How old is she?” John asked, getting to his feet and looking down on the consulting detective.

“About a week” Sherlock told him. It was a guess but all the evidence suggested that she was no more than a week old.

“Come on” The army doctor urged as he made his way towards the door. He watched with a fond smile as Sherlock pushed himself up from the sofa using his free arm while keeping a firm but gentle grip on the sleeping child.

 

* * *

 

 

“Everything seems fine” The doctor assured them. He looked up from the baby in the cot, awake and kicking her arms and legs out slightly in exploration more than anything else. Sherlock watched the male doctor intently, his neat brown hair and smart casual jeans and shirt beneath a lab coat. “She seems quite content but will be getting hungry soon, I’ll have a nurse prepare a bottle for you.” He gestured to a blonde nurse who nodded and left the room.

“Does she have a name?” The doctor asked, sitting up straight while keeping his hand in the cot for the baby to play with, her little hands reaching out to him.

Sherlock didn’t answer. John looked at him for a moment before returning his gaze to the doctor. “No, not yet.”

They’d read the letter. A note left by a woman called Celine Howards, explaining that the baby was Sherlock’s and she found herself unable to take care of her. She didn’t even name her.

“The mothers name? I could check hospital records.” The Doctor suggested, helpfully.

“Celine Howards” Sherlock said simply, voice low and heavy.

The doctor nodded, explained that he would go and check the records and left.

Sherlock stepped away from the wall and closer to the cot. The baby squirmed, eyes flicking up to look at him and he lent down, making it easier for her under-developed eyes to see. Sherlock watched her kick her legs contently, stretching out in uncoordinated jerky movements.

“You could name her you know?” John told him, the question rhetorical.

Sherlock jerked expectantly, stepping back and putting some distance between him and the cot. “Don’t be absurd John” He snapped. His gaze flickered to the army doctor, whose blue eyes were fixed on him in a mixture of confusion and amusement. “Why would I want to do that?”

John shrugged and moved to the coat. He smiled down at the small baby. “Everyone needs a name.”

“Ridiculous” Sherlock scoffed. “You name something and become attached.”

“And…” John looked up, confused.

“I’m not exactly the ideal father John.”

“You could be.”

“I really couldn’t.”

“How would you know?” John questioned, raising an eyebrow at him. It reminded him of the moment in Buckingham palace when Mycroft had questioned his being alarmed at sex. He narrowed his eyes at the shorter man.

Sherlock didn’t answer. He just looked down at the baby for a moment. She was very…likable, he supposed. Tiny, a miniature human being, fascinating really and adorable…and well he made her.

A knock on the door captured his attention, he looked up and frowned at Gavin Lestrade.

 

 

 

 


	2. Chapter Two: Two Days Old

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock takes some responsibility and gives his baby a name.

Sherlock stilled. His eyes turning to ice as he glared at the detective inspector. John’s eyes flicked to Sherlock and back to Greg who stepped cautiously into the room. He was obviously on duty, dressed in a shirt and black trousers, blazer and long coat over the top. He ran a hand through his greying hair as he continued to access the situation.

“Greg” John greeted with a smile.

“John, Sherlock” The Detective Inspector nodded.

“What are you doing here?” Sherlock spat.

The baby jerked at the sound, startled and began screaming. Sherlock cursed, ignoring the shocked looks from John and Greg, who hardly ever heard him swear, and moved back to the cot. “Shhh” he attempted to sooth her. After a few moments he scooped her into his arms, supporting her head and cradling her to his body. He jiggled slightly until she settled down somewhat and flicked his gaze back to the grey haired man, whose chocolate brown eyes were baring into him like he’d grown a second head. “What are you doing here?” Sherlock asked, tone lacking its usual harshness.

“Child abandonment” Greg offered in explanation, pulling his notebook and pen from his coat pocket. He opened it to the correct page and read. “New-born baby abandoned, found on a doorstep. The hospital phoned.”

“Wrong” Sherlock declared, quietly. He was holding the baby in his arms, now rocking his gently from side to side. The white of her baby grow contrasting his dark grey coat.

“What?” John asked.

“Wrong” Sherlock repeated. “The hospital may have called the police but this is not your department, this has Mycroft written all over it.”

Greg sighed and admitted. “He’s concerned.”

“Yes, I bet” Sherlock sounded unconvinced, emphasising the ‘t’.

“He wanted me to take the case, keep it in the family.” Greg explained. “He knows how you hate people prying into your business.” Sherlock made a noise at the back of his throat, that of disgust and disbelief.

The doctor came back in, glancing around the room. He stepped into the room, followed by the same nurse as before with a bottle in her hand and small muslin. In his hands he held a file. “Miss Howards was discharged this morning” He informed them.

“She was here?” John asked, the same time Greg asked, very confused. “Who is this ‘Miss Howards’?”

“The mother” The doctor continued. “A colleague of mine treated her, she came in two days ago with contractions and had” she gestured to the baby in Sherlock’s arms “this little lady that evening. They were kept in for observation and she left at nine o’clock this morning.”

“So her birthday is the 2nd of May?” Greg confirmed, jotting some notes down. The doctor nodded.

“Why were they kept in for observation?” John asked.

The brown haired doctor glanced down at the file. “She was born breech. Kneeling breech.”

Sherlock glanced at John for clarification, the blonde explained knowing Sherlock wouldn’t ask because of his pride. “The baby is in a kneeling position, both or one of her legs extended at the hips and flexed at the knees; it’s pretty rare.”

Sherlock glanced back at the baby in his arms, his chest constricting again like it did when he thought about her being abandoned. She was tiny, only two days old and had been left on his doorstep. The thought of her suffering through a difficult birth didn’t help. She was settled now, in his arms.

The doctor nodded and continued. “There was a risk of cord prolapse, meaning that the amniotic sac could break and cause the umbilical cord to become compressed and complications arise with oxygen flow to the baby. Luckily, we avoided such complications. Apart from that, everything was routine. We just wanted to monitor her breathing and make sure that everything was ok. And we have the results of the paternity test.”

“And?” John asked, taking over for Sherlock.

“She’s yours Mr Holmes” The doctor handed John the test results and brandished them to Sherlock. The consulting detective looked over them, eyes flicking over the sheet of paper with intense interest. 99.9999% of paternity left little to the imagination.

 

* * *

 

“What are we going to do?” John asked Sherlock.

The consulting detective was sat on a hospital bed with his daughter in his arms, feeding her the bottle that the nurse had prepared. He looked up at the blonde in surprise and repeated. “We?”

“Yes.” John confirmed, throwing Sherlock his best, of course you idiot look. “Whatever decision you make, it affects the both of us.”

“Hmmm” Sherlock hummed in acknowledgement, turning his full attention back to his daughter. She released the bottles teat with a wet pop, milk collecting on her rosy lips. He tried the bottle again but she jerked her head and kept her lips shut. The detective put the bottle down and dabbed her lips clean with the muslin.

 

* * *

  

Greg came back into the room, running a hand through his silver hair as Mycroft followed him. The elder Holmes looked down at the scene with a mixture of astonishment and disappointment, his back straight and hand curled elegantly around the wooden handle of his umbrella. “Sherlock” He voiced, eyes fixed on his brother sat on the hospital bed with a sleeping baby curled protectively in his arms. At the sound of his voice the consulting detective’s arms tightened slightly, not enough for the sleeping infant to notice or anyone else in the room, but enough for the auburn haired government worker to notice. It was an involuntary gesture, like that of a protective parents.

“Piss off” Sherlock responded with none of his usual bite.

Mycroft raised an eyebrow, exchanging a glance with Greg who seemed fazed but used to the action by now. “Really Sherlock?” He taunted his younger brother knowing Sherlock would have seen him notice the unconscious movement of his arms around the baby.

The consulting detective tensed visibly. “It’s none of your business Mycroft.”

“He always was like this with new toys” he told the room before returning his full attention to his younger brother. “I just came to visit my niece.”

“She is not a toy” Sherlock spat, volume raising. The baby released a soft moan but remained asleep, a warning to them all that anymore would wake her. The curly haired man’s attentions then fixed on his daughter, her sleeping figure. The hat was long gone revealing her dark locks, short but curling at the ends already and tiny body covered with a thin blanket.

“Come now.” Mycroft scolded, playing mother, again.

“Can you not go a minute without sticking your big nose in business that does not concern you?” Sherlock asked, raising both eyebrows and genuinely expecting an answer.

“Please boys.” John spoke calmly, eyes going to the baby in his best friends arms with a hint of concern.

“It is my concern” Mycroft said after a moment as he stepped closer, craning slightly to view the baby tucked in his brothers arms. “She is my niece after all.”

“And my daughter” Sherlock argued, shocking the others into silence. He’d never said that out loud before, it was interesting to say the least and very, natural.

“Yes, she is.” Mycroft agreed with a firm twitch of the lips. Sherlock rolled his eyes and Mycroft continued. “There are matters to be discussed.”

“Now?” John asked.

“Now would be better” Greg answered for Mycroft. Sherlock resisted the urge to heave, ever since the two had become an item they had become annoyingly in tune and while not agreeing with things in private, they always put on a united front, especially against Sherlock.

“What are your intentions?” Mycroft asked, eyes fixed on the younger Holmes and his even younger daughter. Sherlock grunted in reply, not dignifying his brother with an answer. Mycroft sighed but continued, these matters were very time delicate. “Sherlock, I know this is a very big decision for you but you have to decide. Either she stays with you or Mummy and Father can look after her.”

Sherlock’s head shot up at this, his eyes cold. The thought of his parents raising her made his stomach churn, they’d done such a great job with him and Mycroft, it would just be their second chance. He hissed. “They can’t have her.”

“They would be thrilled, a grandchild at last.” Mycroft told them, glancing at John, the only one who hadn’t yet met his parents. “Of course, they wouldn’t let her end up in care, we Holmeses stick together, they would be quite content raising her. Thrilled really.”

“No” Sherlock snapped. Mycroft’s brow furrowed and all attention was on him, once again. He was angry, raging but somehow managing to keep it cool for the baby in his arms.

“No?” Greg repeated, unsure.

“No” Sherlock confirmed. “They cannot have her, she is mine.”

“There is a lot to think about here” Greg told him calmly. “A baby will completely disrupt your life.”

“I’ll manage” The consulting detective shot back, pushing himself from the bed and onto his feet all the while, keeping a firm hold on his sleeping daughter, she jerked slightly at the movement but remained asleep.

“We’ll manage” John corrected, reaching for the baby bag one of the nurses had prepared for them while Sherlock fastened his coat, one handed. Sherlock’s eyes darted to John for a moment, softening before continuing his task.

“Sherlock” Mycroft stepped closer to his brother, to stop him from hurrying away and spoke sincerely. “I will support you in whatever decision you make but you need to think about this, a baby. You didn’t even know about her, she isn’t the child of loving parents but the results of a tryst in an alleyway. She is two days old, with no name or home, and you are hardly the fatherly type.”

Sherlock’s eyes widened at his brother words, shocking but true. He wasn’t the fatherly type and his mother was a simple fuck in a dirty alleyway, but his daughter was not the result of that. He glanced at Greg who tried to hide it but was obviously thinking the same as Mycroft, then John who just smiled. A supportive friendly smile.

“My daughter’s name is Maeve” Sherlock announced before sweeping out of the room.


	3. Chapter Three: Three Days Old

Back at Baker Street, a box had been left in the lounge – filled to the brim with the necessities; bottles, a steriliser, powdered baby milk, blankets, clothes, dummies, muslins, nappies, wipes and a baby carrier. A gift from Mycroft, the other essentials could be purchased the next day. John placed the bag provided by the hospital beside the box, glancing inside curiously and turning his attention back to the consulting detective. The car journey had been a silent one, Sherlock was still reeling from his conversation with Mycroft and the fact they had to use the elder Holmes’s car, with no carseat there wasn’t really a choice.

Sherlock had somehow shed his coat and scarf, now hanging on the back of the door with his daughter still fast asleep in his arms, completely undisturbed. John perched himself on the arm of the sofa. “So” He started conversationally. “Maeve, huh?”

“Hmmm” Sherlock hummed in response.

“Is there a reason for that?”

“It’s a nice name” Sherlock shrugged.

“Come on Sherlock, this is me you’re talking to.”

“It’s Celtic” Sherlock admitted, turning to face John but keeping his eye fixed firmly on the sleeping infant. “For Mythological queen, Irish for joy and Gaelic for _intoxicating_.”

“I like it” John admitted, pushing himself up from the sofa and making his way into the kitchen. “It’s very pretty.”

Sherlock followed him to the kitchen and instructed before the army doctor could turn the kettle on. “Don’t make tea. You’ve been at work, on a date and at the hospital for the past few hours, go to bed.”

“Are you sure?” John asked, flicking the kettle on anyway.

“Of course, unlike me you are more productive with sleep than without it.”

“You’ll need tea then.”

 

* * *

 

John retreated to bed not long after, leaving Sherlock alone with his daughter for the first time since he discovered her on the steps of 221B. He’d placed her on the sofa with pillows boxing her in on either side, her small steady breaths the only sound apart from the turning of pages, he raced through a parenting book intended for expectant mothers and began extensive research into the topic, newborn babies.

There was an extensive amount of this he would need for her. The spare bedroom upstairs would have to be converted into a nursery, he’d have to ask Mrs Hudson in the morning while informing her that she had a new tenant that was a baby. She’d stay in his room for now, for the first few months at least, he needed a Moses basket and a cot for his room. It was in pristine order but the rest of the house would have to be cleaned and made safe for her.

This would require a lot more data.

 

* * *

 

John awoke at eight o’clock, surprised that he hadn’t been woken up sooner by the consulting detective or his daughter. He stretched and made his way downstairs, blonde hair messy from sleep wearing a loose white top and checked pyjama bottoms. He pushed the door to the lounge open, quietly, aware of the relative silence.

Sherlock was sat on the sofa with his back to John. His long legs stretched out in front of him and back against the arm of the sofa, curly head still and a book in his hand. Maeve’s face low on his shoulder, looking at the long pale column of his throat. John stepped further in the room to get a better look at him, shirtless with his daughter tucked against his side, supported with a large hand across her small back, a white bodysuit with no arms or legs and blanket the only thing covering her.

“Alright?” John asked, corners of his mouth tugging up in amusement. He then looked up at the wall and sighed, there pictures, articles and data tacked up everywhere – all information about babies. He didn’t comment on it.

Sherlock’s eyes flicked to the army doctor, abandoning his book and then looking at his daughter – awake and content tucked against him, eyes blue and still slightly droopy from sleep. “Fine” He answered, voice rumbling low in his chest.

“She been alright?”

“Absolutely fine.” Sherlock told him, not taking his observing eyes away from his daughter. Her little hand was resting against his collarbone breathing softly, glassy eyes flicking over his pale skin with interest. He placed the book on the coffee table and swung his legs around to the floor with little effort. Maeve seemed unfazed by the sudden movement, too focused on the vast amounts of skin that she was resting on.

“Do I want to ask?” John gestured to his naked torso.

“Someone spit milk up on me.” He replied, eyes widening slightly at his daughter in fake annoyance. John could see right through it, if anything he was amused.

“Do you need anything from the kitchen?”

“There’s a bottle on the side, it needs to be warmed.”

“Ok.”

John returned from the kitchen a few minutes later with two cups of tea and a bottle of milk with a muslin around it. He placed all three on the coffee table.  

 

* * *

 

When John disappears back upstairs after snapping pictures of the father and daughter, against said fathers will, he immediately called for Mrs Hudson, voice loud but cautious. Maeve jerked at the sound, surprised and shocking herself. The consulting detective rushed to his feet and began a comforting jiggle, hoping to stop her crying. After a moment of quivering lip against his collarbone and silence, Maeve stops, and Sherlock grins triumphantly.

“ _Sher_ lock” Mrs Hudson scolds as she comes upstairs voice harsh but gentle. “You can’t just go around shouting, I’m your landlady, not your housekeeper.”

“I wanted to introduce you to your new tenant.” He explained, voice low and deep.

“New Tenant?” The elderly woman asked, stepping into the room with a confused look. Her expression immediately shifted to that of shock when noticing the baby in his arms, then shifted to that of a doting grandmother.

“This is Maeve” he introduced, turning his body slightly so his landlady had a better view of the baby resting against his chest. “My daughter. She’ll require the spare room upstairs.”

“Daughter?” She repeated, tone excessively high.

“Hmm” Sherlock hummed in confirmation. “It’s a long story Mrs Hudson.”

“I’ll make tea.”

 

* * *

 

When John comes back down fully dressed Mycroft is sat in his armchair, one leg crossed elegantly over the other and his hands resting together in his lap. The auburn haired government official smiles at John in greeting, an overly friendly, fake smile that John finds himself returning despite himself.

Mrs Hudson was gone, back downstairs. She had sat while Sherlock explained, drinking tea and feeding Maeve left shortly after Mycroft’s arrival. Sherlock was back on the sofa, just sitting, still holding Maeve in the same fashion as John had found them in previously.

“I’ve just come by to give you this.” The elder Holmes brother produced an envelope from his inner jacket pocket and placed it on the small round table beside him. He looked at Sherlock. “Full access to your trust fund.” Sherlock raised an eyebrow but didn’t respond. Obvious, after his trust fund was taken away from him when he dropped out of university, he’d only been allowed restricted access but now he had a child to care for, he was allowed it all again, for Maeve of course. He continued. “Since you’re adamant about keeping her, I will have the nursery prepared for you as quick as possible.”

“Nothing pink.” Sherlock said quickly, distain dripping from his voice.

“She is a little girl, Sherlock.”

“And pink is a frivolous colour, just because she’s a girl doesn’t mean pink is the only colour permitted for nurseries.” He argued.

“What would you prefer?” Mycroft asked, bending to his brothers will. There was no arguing with him on this matter apparently.

“Dark wood furnishing, purple, a chair for nursing and anything else recommended.”

“Fine. And you’ll pick up everything else today?”

“Later.”

“Good.”

Sherlock stood abruptly, his hold on his daughter soft but demanding, cautious but strong. He crossed the room and stood in front of Mycroft, who looked confused and terrified. “I assume you’d like to hold your niece.”

Mycroft managed a nod in response. Sherlock had been the only one to hold her so far. The pale man pried the baby from his chest, she whined in response and held her away from his body, turning her and placing her in Mycroft’s waiting arms. He looked rather silly, tall in a dark three piece suit with a baby dressed only in a bodysuit that only covered torso, a blanket between her and Mycroft, his large hands supporting her. Sherlock stood for a moment before striding off in the direction of his bedroom.

“She’s rather precious, isn’t she?” Mycroft spoke after a moment of holding her, looking down at the pink tiny creature in his arms. She was still, hands clenched into miniature fists against her chest. Both legs were bent and slightly scrunched up against her body. She yawned.

John smiled to himself as he returned from the kitchen and nodded. “Adorable.”

“Like there was any doubt.” Sherlock scoffed as he strode back into the room, freshly dressed and buttoning up his jacket as he walked.

Mycroft looked up at his brother’s arrival before looking back down at his baby niece. “Social services will want to visit.” He ignored the expression he knew Sherlock was pulling, the ‘why on earth would that happen’ expression. “I have explained the situation and pulled some strings but there needs to be a formal visit after the circumstances of her arrival.”

“Fine.” The detective gritted.

“Excellent and you’ll want to register her soon, you’ll want to be thinking about names for the birth certificate.”

“She already has a name.” Sherlock frowned hovering over her brother.

“A full name Sherlock.” John clarified.

“Yes.”

“You’ve already decided?” Mycroft asked, surprised.

“Of course.” Sherlock rolled his eyes, crouching down and scooping his daughter from his brother’s arms. He kept her head supported as he turned her into her early position, up and resting against his chest. Maeve’s head leaning against his shirt and looking at his neck once more. “Allow me to introduce you to Maeve Alexis Christine Holmes.”

The government official and army doctor mulled it over for a moment. John spoke first. “I like it.”

“Christine? Grandmother Christine?” Mycroft asked.

“Of course.”

“How sentimental.”

Sherlock huffed a breath. “Oh, please, she was the only redeemable member of the family.”

“And this has nothing to do with the fact she was the only one accepting of your… _quirks_?”

“Grandmother Christine was kind and accepting of all, she somehow raised out father and deserves to be remembered for that.” Sherlock explained coldly, keeping his hold on Maeve tight as he jiggled her up and down slightly. He added as an after note, sounding like a child. “And she liked bees.”

“I struggle to see the significance of Alexis.” Mycroft admitted.

“I just like that name.” Sherlock shrugged.

“Sherlock” Mycroft drawled out, impatiently.

“There is no reason for the name, I just saw it somewhere and liked it.”

“Fine, it’s a very lovely name.” Sherlock gave a curt nod in agreement, like he would pick anything else for his beautiful daughter. Mycroft continued. “And you must tell mummy and father, they’ll be over the moon.”

“I will” Sherlock snapped. “I just want some time.”

“Time?” Mycroft asked, eyebrows raised.

Sherlock rolled his eyes, he felt John come round beside him and smile at Maeve. “Yes, time. For me and my daughter. We need to bond, it’s a crucial part of her development and I’ve already missed precious time. I and John need to adjust and get everything ready for her.”

Mycroft looked conflicted but nodded. He was right after all. “You will have to tell them eventually.”

“Of course” Sherlock deflected quickly. The longer he could keep his parents out of this the better, they would just swoop in and try to control everything, that’s if they didn’t try to get her taken away from him.

“I’ll take my leave” Mycroft pushed himself elegantly to his feet. “Gregory and I will be back later, I’ll bring dinner.”

“Fine.” Sherlock muttered under his breath. The elder Holmes left the two men alone with the small infant, they had a busy day ahead of them.

 


	4. Chapter Four: Three Days Old

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The boys go shopping and pop in on a crime scene on the way home. Just an ordinary day...or not.

 

Sherlock stepped out of Baker Street, Maeve now dressed in a plain bodysuit with a soft white jacket over the top and a blanket wrapped around her bottom half, a matching hat covering her tiny head, tucked in against Sherlock’s chest in what looked to be his favourite way of holding her.  The length of her body resting against his torso, hand supporting her back, neck and head with one arm and the other holding her bottom, keeping her close and feeling the soft puffs of air against his neck. He’d kept his scarf off, in his coat pocket which he was now wearing.

John said a final farewell to Mrs Hudson and followed Sherlock out of the building, a plain black messenger bag filled with baby bits hooked over his shoulder and a smile on his face. “Where are we going?” John asked.

“Mothercare” Sherlock snarled.

“That way then.” John nodded and they began walking. “What do we need?”

“We need equipment for feeding, changing, sleeping, bath time, getting around, soothing and entertaining.” Sherlock answered quickly, after reading all night he had devised a list of everything they needed, a rather extensive list. “And clothes, now she is wearing new born but babies grow quickly, we’ll need clothes to prepare for that as well. Mycroft with furnish the room we’ll need to provide everything else.”

“And who’s paying for this?”

“Mycroft of course.” Sherlock huffed.

“Of course, and he knows about this?” John questioned.

“He insisted.”

“That’s very nice of him.”

“Hmm” Sherlock agreed nonchalantly, cradling his daughter to his chest as she started to snooze against him. They walked fast but cautiously, avoiding large groups of people and weaving carefully to avoid bumping into anyone.

  

* * *

 

 

“What about this?” John asked, holding up a little pink outfit that consisted of a long sleeve bodysuit and pair of soft dungarees.

Sherlock glared at the offending item, holding Maeve tight to his chest as she snored softly against his neck, completely undisturbed. “Definitely not.”

“Come on, it’s cute.”

“It’s pink.”

“And you’re raising a little girl, pink is an acceptable colour.”

“I hate pink.”

“She might not.”

“ _She”_ He bobbed up and down slightly, gesturing without his arms to his daughter. “has no thoughts on the colour pink and until she does it remains my decision, we are avoiding pink.”

“There must be some exceptions.”

“There are” Sherlock agreed. “Pink will of course make an appearance in her wardrobe but in small doses.”

“Fine” John huffed, seeing no point arguing with the consulting detective. He had obviously made up his mind.

“Hi” A woman asked, walking over to them with a large smile. She was college age with dark blonde hair and a pair of large square glasses over her eyes. There was a name tag ‘Emma’ on her dark blue polo shirt, she worked there. She then turned her attention to the baby against the pale man’s chest and her smile widened. “Your baby is gorgeous.”

“Thank you.” Sherlock responded, those two words seeming alien coming from him and reeking of fake pleasantness. But he meant it, or at least meant the sentiment behind it.

“Can I help you?” She asked, eyes wide and seeking.

“We need everything” The consulting detective said simply.

“Everything?”

“Everything.”

“We don’t have anything except a night’s worth of supplies.” John added.

“You don’t have anything?”

“It’s a long story” John sighed. “It’s all happened very suddenly.”

“I wasn’t aware of her existence until yesterday evening, her mother kept things rather quiet and now she is in my care.” Sherlock explained, voice coming across softer than normal but John could hear the bite in his tone.

“Poor thing.” Emma declared suddenly. “Well, let’s see about getting everything set up for you.”

  

* * *

 

 

“This is the Matrix system stroller, it’s three in one. You can have it as a pram or attach the carseat, and it shifts into a buggy for when’s she’s a little older.” Emma explained, it was the best pram in the store. “There are various colours in stock.”

“Purple” Sherlock muttered simply. Emma nodded and ordered it on the tablet, it was best for her to order as they went to get everything ready for them. They would be leaving with the pram and the rest delivered throughout the day.

“Right.” Emma looked up from the tablet. “Shall we?”

 

* * *

 

 

“Thank you, Mr Holmes.” Emma handed Sherlock the card back over the counter and began bagging the last of the items. John was waiting by the new pram, cradling Maeve in his shorter arms. Sherlock nodded and picked up the two bags on the counter – everything else was being delivered within the next few hours. The sales assistant added quickly. “If you ever need anything, you know where we are.”

Sherlock turned with a brief polite smile and walked over to John. The blonde was shaking his head in disbelief. “Unbelievable.”

Maeve was tucked in the doctor’s shorter arms, for the first time. He was jiggling up and down, slightly and an unconscious movement.

“What is?” Sherlock asked, putting the two bags at the bottom of the pram and prying his daughter from the doctor’s arms, just holding her for a moment while he looked at John expectantly. Her nose scrunched up in annoyance but she remained asleep, warning that more movement would wake her.

“She was practically throwing herself at you.” Sherlock frowned, disgusted by the idea.

“Not me.” Sherlock clarified. “Maeve, it’s a biological imperative to reproduce, I have a daughter which demonstrates-“

John cut him off. “Women like men with babies, got it.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes and put Maeve in her new pram, laying down and tucked up in blankets. “Good deduction but I was hoping you’d dig a bit deeper.”

Sherlock hooked their new baby bag over the handles of the pram and got in position, ready to walk with the pram as John stood beside him. “She likes kids, working in a place like this you’d have to and has extensive knowledge on the babies and what they need.”

“Good, very good.” The consulting detective nodded as they left the shop.

“She wants kids.”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. “Wants…She is overcome with her want for children and compensates with her work, she’ll be rewarded soon enough.”

“Rewarded?” John asked, eyeing up his friend as they walked.

“Hmmm” Sherlock hummed.

Sherlock’s phone vibrated and he plucked it from his pocket, keeping one hand firmly on the buggy and somehow managing to remain moving in a straight line.

“Case?” John askes, raising an eyebrow.

“Yes” Sherlock responded, putting the phone back in his pocket and steering once again with two hands instead of one. “It’s just round the corner.”

 

* * *

 

“Thank you for coming.” Greg greeted the moment they arrived, not remarking on the brand new buggy or the baby inside, merely raising an eyebrow. Sherlock stopped beside him and the detective inspector peered in at the baby, fast asleep beneath her blankets, lips scrunched up. “How was she last night?”

“Fine.” Sherlock offered.

“Did you get any sleep?”

“I do not need sleep to function as I have explained many times before.”

“No, instead he turned our living room into a giant nest of information about babies.” John sighed. It was endearing really, cute even, Sherlock just wanted to make sure he was covering all the bases and had all available data.

“It is imperative that I have all the facts.” Sherlock argued, his icy glare landing on John.

“It’s not all about the books.” Greg said quickly.

Sherlock rounded on him with his ‘don’t be an idiot’ expression and said. “I know that” He then added, quieter. “I also spent time watching her.”

“Watching?” John repeated.

Sherlock corrected his mistake. “Observing.”

“You observed her?” Greg asked, unsure. Sherlock’s observations usually spun from his deductions which were not well received.

“Exactly, I observed her natural behaviour.”

“You were just too scared to take your eyes off of her.” Greg teased.

“Me? Scared?” Sherlock challenged, mask of indifference.

John sighed and huffed. “It’s fine to admit you’re scared.”

“I know.”

“I know you know.”

“Good.”

“Good.”

“Well” Greg interrupted, not wanting to watch much more of this strange exchange between the doctor and detective. They were like an old married couple. “Sorry to break it to you, but Maeve isn’t allowed on the crime scene. I’m surprised you even let her out of the house.”

Sherlock rounded on Greg, the question of his parenting lingering in the air like a bad smell. The detective inspector looked at the ground, aware of his mistake. Sherlock responded, simply. “I would much rather be at home with my daughter but without the sufficient equipment to care for her, a trip out has become necessary. She is warm and sleeping at this moment. And I have no intention of submitting my daughter to your crime scene.”

Greg looked confused. “Then what are you going to do?”

“You are going to watch her while John and I take a look at the crime scene.”

“Am I?” The Salt and Peppered hair detective asked, resting his hands on his hips expectantly.

“Yes.”

“Do I have any say on this?”

“Not if you want me to consult on the case.”

“Fine.” He muttered, gesturing to the house with police at the door and tape cordoning off the area. Sherlock shot him a rather large fake smile and with one last look to his daughter strode off, John following him with a small grin.

Greg sighed to himself, resting his hands on the handle of the pram and peering in. Maeve was fast asleep, breath coming out in short even puffs, one mitten covered hand by her face and the other underneath her blanket. She was wrapped up, warm and content. Her face still slightly red and scarce black hair covered by her small hat. “You’re just completely loveable aren’t you?” He asked himself more than her.

Sherlock was already under her spell and John, well John was long gone as well. He had a sneaky suspicion Mycroft was already taken with the baby, the way he’d gone on about her after going home last night and his morning visit to Baker Street.

“Sir” Donovan called out, coming out of the house with Anderson by her side. She looked confused and slightly amused by the sight of her boss with a pram. “Did you happen to sprout a baby?”

Lestrade rolled his eyes. “Yes, yes, very funny.”

Anderson looked even more confused than Donovan, face screwed up in confusion and looking more like a rat that usual. “Where did the baby come from?”

“I’m just watching her for a moment.” The D.I explained.

“For who?” Greg pursed his lips and didn’t answer. He ignored the pointedly looks he received from the pair of them. Anderson repeated. “For who?”

“For me.” A deep baritone answered. Sherlock was approaching them, fast, looking slightly concerned but to the untrained eye he looked like his normal self, harsh expression in place. He pocketed his leather gloves and stepped towards the pram, into the gap as Lestrade stepped back, clearing room for him. Inside, Maeve remained asleep and undisturbed.

“For you?” Anderson stuttered.

“Since when did you have a baby?” Sally asked, hand on hip, not insulting but genuinely surprised.

“Since the 2nd of May.” The consulting detective responded.

“Who would have a baby with you?” Anderson asked, looking disgusted by the idea.

Sherlock’s head shot up and eyes narrowed. “No-one apparently.” He informed them.

John looked hurt by the response, hurt for Sherlock not himself. Greg looked at the ground. Anderson just looked pleased with himself, suspicion confirmed. “I knew it.” He responded triumphantly.

“Wait” Sally interrupted. “You had a baby and didn’t tell anyone.”

“I didn’t know.”

“You didn’t know.” Sally was sceptical.

“No.”

Anderson leered. “How could you not know? What kind of freak are you?”

Sherlock looked down at his sleeping daughter and announced. “We’re going for a walk.”

“Where are we going?” John asked, annoyed and ready to follow.

“Not you.” Sherlock muttered quickly as he began walking away, pushing the pram ahead of him. “Me and my daughter.”

John stopped and watched as he disappeared around the corner, hurt and protecting his child. He turned on Anderson ready to give him an earful when Sally asked, gently. “How could he not know that he had a daughter?”

The doctor raised an eyebrow. “He didn’t know because the mother didn’t tell him and instead of calling to inform him of Maeve’s existence, she left her on our doorstep forty-eight hours after she was born. You want to know what kind of _freak_ ” he hissed “Sherlock is, he’s the kind that has never considered or wanted children, the kind that despite that took in his daughter and is trying his hardest to raise her, although he didn’t know she existed.”

With that John Watson left the crime scene and he didn’t look back.

 


	5. Chapter Five: Three Days Old

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock goes off on his own, John worries and Mycroft know's everything.

Sherlock stormed off with no particular destination in mind. He gripped the prams handle, knuckles turning white with force as he attempted to even out his breathing and control his anger. Anderson, that idiot. He had no idea, none at all. Just because he was a ‘freak’ didn’t mean he was completely unlovable. And his daughter shouldn’t be brought into that, she was innocent and had already been through enough. Idiot. He was just annoyed that his wife was making him sleep on the sofa, she was suspicious about his affair and that Sally was in a mood with him.

Maeve stirred in her pram, face scrunching up and gloved fist coming to rub at her eye in jerky movements. She was going to be hungry and would need changing. He looked up for a moment. There was a café, small and clean looking. It wasn’t very busy, only quarter past eleven. The consulting detective went in and sat himself down at the table in the corner, there was enough room for the buggy to rest beside the table and look in on Maeve.

“Can I get you anything?” A barista with a bleach blonde pixie cut asked as he shook off his coat and took his seat, putting his blue scarf into his pocket.

“Coffee, black, two sugars.” He ordered. She nodded and glanced at the now slightly restless baby.

“Cute baby.” She told him before going off to complete his order.

“Understatement of the century.” Sherlock muttered to himself, rolling his eyes and leaning forward.

Maeve still had her eyes closed but her face was scrunching up and she was now wiggling beneath her blankets. He reached in and pulled the covers from her, bunching them at her feet and pulling off her mittens. She wouldn’t need them inside. He then dragged his finger over her small red face in small soft movements. She pursed her lips. “Time to wake up.” He encouraged her in a low soft tone.

She whined, the sound high and quite loud for her. Sherlock’s eyes widened in surprise. She didn’t like being woken up much, they had that in common. New-born babies were only awake 10% of the time. He kept up with the movement of his finger on his face.

“Your coffee, sir.” The barista announced her return. She placed the mug on the table and took a step back with a smile. “Can I get you anything else?”

Sherlock looked up at her. “Would it be possible to warm up some milk?”

“Of course.” Sherlock opened and reached into the bag, producing a bottle of water and milk powder. He quickly and efficiently made the milk, shook it and handed it to the woman. She reassured with a smile. “I have two younger sisters, I know how to heat milk.”

She ducked away again and once again his attention was on his daughter. “Maeve” He exhaled. She was on the verge of sleeping again, fighting against waking up. Her nose scrunched up again, it was becoming his favourite expression of hers. So much so, that he took out his phone and took a picture, adorable. He the phone, he paid little attention to the barista’s return, she left the bottle on the table and went away.

Sherlock watched his daughter open her eyes cautiously, the bright lights in the café too much for her brand new eyes. She blinked a few times, rapidly and Sherlock reached into the pram. One large hand coming to rest under her head and the other on her back – picking up her tiny body with the right support. She continued blinking, electric blue eyes bright and trying to focus. Babies had very limited sight at this age and the closer the better. He held her up for a moment, allowing her to look at his face. She dragged her hand up, accidently hitting him on the nose. Sherlock huffed a laugh, there was no force behind it but he certainly was not expecting it.

“You are so loveable.” He muttered simply, drawing her closer to his body in his newly acquired and favourite position. Her against his chest, breathing reassuringly against his neck while her little hands moved over his chest in inquisitive and shaky movements. She whined again, a deeper sound. “I know, you’re hungry. I get it.” 

* * *

John rushed up the stairs. The flat was silent, Sherlock wasn’t here. He cursed to himself. Anderson was a total idiot. He never knew when to shut his big mouth.

He pulled his phone out of his pocket and dialled Mycroft. He already tried Sherlock three times, he’d ignored them all.

“John.” The elder Holmes greeted after exactly three rings.

“Mycroft.” He spoke quickly. “Do you happen to know where Sherlock is?”

“He’s fine John.”

“That doesn’t answer my question.”

Mycroft sighed. “He’s stopped off at a small café.”

“He just stormed off, I didn’t get a chance…”

Mycroft interrupted, voice completely calm as per usual. “He needed to blow off some steam, the walk helped with that and now he’s enjoying the company of his daughter. He’ll be back shortly.”

“Thank you.” John spoke sincerely.

“Its fine, John.”

John pocketed his phone and went into the kitchen. Teas, tea would be good.

“Alright mate” A voice pulled him from his head. A large man was stood in the hallway, wearing overalls covered in specs of pain. “Finished the nursery, we’ll be leaving now.”

“Finished the nursery” John repeated. Sherlock had mentioned the nursery and Mycroft something about sorting it out, they must have been quick about it. “You’ve finished it already?”

“Yeah.” The guy answered, he said a goodbye and trotted out of the door. 

* * *

Sherlock manoeuvred the pram through the doors and into the hallway. Maeve was on the cusp of sleep again, wrapped back up nice and warm. He hated to disturb her but needs must. He reached into the pram and picked up his daughter, the same way as before, in one smooth and fast movement towards his chest. She moaned but didn’t wake up completely. He then shifted to hold her with just one long arm and hooked the baby bag over his arm. Then he grabbed the two bags from mothercare they had stored under the pram.

“John is going to be pretty mad.” He told his daughter as she snoozed against his chest.

He then made his way upstairs. John was sat in his arm chair, he folded the book in his hand and glanced over his shoulder at the consulting detective. The whole room was covered with bags and boxes from mothercare, their delivery from earlier. The place was clean in his absence and things packed away neatly.

“The nursery is done.” John said after a moment. Sherlock acknowledge this with a grunt, he placed the bags in his hands beside the others and the baby bag on the coffee table. He then plopped himself onto the sofa, holding Maeve tight to his chest and throwing his head back against the wall. “Feel better?”

“Much” Sherlock answered.

“You seem rather cheerful.” John observed, surprised as he placed his book onto the table.

“Well, my daughter is a completely delightful.”

“You sound completely smitten.”

“I am.” Sherlock admitted. “She doesn’t like to be woken, when she is she scrunches up her face up. I’ve never seen anything quite like it.”

“It sounds precious.”

“It is.” John smiled at his friend, he liked this side of him. The caring side. Sherlock continued. “She also hit me, right on the nose.”

“And that’s adorable?” John asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Well, she didn’t mean to do it. Her movements are not yet fluid, they won’t be for a while. It’s better that she hit me than myself.”

“That’s true.” John nodded. “Are you going to put her down?”

“Yes, when I have set up her Moses basket in my bedroom along with anything else that she may need. I have acquired a few different chairs for her but they also need to be set up.”

“What are you going to do with her in the meantime?”

“She can sleep in my bed. As long as we set up the pillows to keep her from falling out or rolling over and set up a camera to monitor her.” Sherlock explained, rising to his feet.

 “A camera?” John asked.

“A baby monitor.” He clarified. “I have two, one for her room and one for my own. They also need to be set up, for now, we are going to use one of Mycroft’s camera and stream it to a tablet. Ok?”

“Fine.”

* * *

Sherlock glanced up at the screen again, aware that John was watching his every movement with a smug kind of smile. “Shut up.” He instructed the blonde.

John laughed and exclaimed. “What?”

“You know exactly what.” The pale man accused. They were in the midst of setting up things, chairs and cushions, clothes on hangers and folded ready for cupboards. All the equipment needed was already in the kitchen set up ready to be used. “I am allowed to worry about her.”

“I know, of course you are.” John defended. “It’s just cute.”

“Cute?” Sherlock repeated with disdain.

“Yes, cute. It’s adorable.” John teased.

“Just what every man dreams of being.” Sherlock scoffed.

“No, it’s not a bad thing.” John clarified, resting his hand on Sherlock’s shoulder for a moment. “It’s nice, I know you’re human I’m just not used to seeing it quite this often.”

“Of course I’m human John, don’t be ridiculous.” Sherlock scolded.

John dropped his hand and went back to working on the pile of bathroom necessities he was folding and piling neatly. “You know exactly what I mean.”

“Do I? Sherlock challenged, successful in unwrapping a large cushion with a harness on it. A beanbag for kids.

“Uh-huh”

“She is very fragile and requires twenty-four hour care.” Sherlock said simply.

“And you’re her father. You can care about her Sherlock, it’s not criticism. I think you’re amazing” John said quickly. “You were amazing before, but now, it’s a totally new side to you and it’s amazing.”

“You think so?” Sherlock asked, speaking slowly.

“Of course.” The blonde looked up from the task and nodded towards the screen. Sherlock followed his movement. “You took her in even though you didn’t have to, there were other options. You chose her and that’s fine, that more than fine actually.”

“I couldn’t just leave her.”

“You could have.”

“I really couldn’t” Sherlock argued, eyes fixed to the screen as his daughter slept. A tiny figure on his bed with pillows either side of her delicate body. “She’s innocent, completely innocent. She didn’t chose her parents and she didn’t chose to be abandoned, she is completely reliant on me and somehow she’s managed to something that I didn’t think was possible anymore. She’s wormed her way into my heart, she already had my mind but my heart, that’s hers.”

“And it hurt to know she was abandoned?”

“It felt like a knife to my chest.” Sherlock hissed.

“It’s ok to feel like that.”

“I know.” He snapped at the doctor, not taking his eyes off of the screen for a second. “She’s just woven me around her tiny finger without even trying.”

“I don’t know that scrunching face might be magic.” John joked. He’d caught a glimpse of the face in person and then on Sherlock’s phone, his screen saver.

“Definitely magic” Sherlock agreed with a huffed laugh. A groan caught his attention. His daughter was now wriggling on the bed and by the looks of things on the verge of tears. Sherlock shot to his feet and muttered. “If you’ll excuse me.”

He stepped over John, careful to avoid all obstacles and wove his way into the bedroom as the sound got louder. She was crying, for the first time since he’d laid eyes on her she was crying. A high-pitch wailing sound that distressed him more than he could say. “Shhh” He hushed, kneeling on the edge of the bed and leaning over the pillows to hover above her. Teared up blue eyes found his face but the crying didn’t stop, only quieting down a fraction. “Daddy’s here.” He told her.

Sherlock scooped her up, holding her against his chest. Her tears dampening his neck and the collar of his shirt. “Daddy’s here, shhh” he hushed, jiggling up and down. “Everything’s going to be fine, I’m here.”

Maeve calmed at the sound of his voice and comforting movements. Sherlock kept whispering comforting phrases to her, she wouldn’t yet understand but she needed to get used to the sound of his voice. Her picked up one of her tiny hands in his own and held it, loosely but reassuringly. He looked up at the camera in the corner, aware that John was watching him and smiled before looking back down at his daughter. “Let’s get you changed and fed, then Daddy will tell you a story.” 


	6. Chapter Six: Three Days Old

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock is a daddy, well obviously but he's beginning to act like it more and more.

The nursery was perfect. The room was cream, the main wall painted deep purple. A black and silver tree was painted onto one of the light walls, with long leaves and butterflies, bees and fairies with flowers lower down. All the furniture was dark wood, almost black. A large cot with high sides and neutral bed clothes, pushed against the purple wall. Opposite there was a dresser unit with shelves, a changing station and on other wall a wardrobe and chest of drawers.

“Perfect.” The consulting detective muttered to himself.

Mycroft had done a good job. There was never any doubt but the consulting detective was impressed. The flat was clean and tidy, the nursery done and now everything was put away, thanks to John. He took one last look before going back downstairs and straight into his room ignoring the look John gave him. The army doctor was at the table, his book abandoned and now reading one of the childcare books that Sherlock had picked up during their shopping trip.

Sherlock’s room was the first thing they set up. The Moses basket had been set up beside his bed, furthest away from the door between the bed and the dresser. Beneath his window was a changing station like the one in the nursery, large and made of dark wood, the top padded and the drawers filled up, beside that was a chest of drawers filled specifically with her stuff. She was asleep, snoring away lightly in her new bed. It was a dark wicker basket with white material and a dark wood base that rocked.

“Come on you, time to get up.” He announced reaching into the Moses basket and lifting his daughter out. He cradled her in his arms as she began to wake up. “Mycroft and Greg will be here soon.” She whined and Sherlock huffed a laugh. “My thoughts exactly.”

He changed her and re-dressed her in a new baby-grow, this one grey with clouds printed on it. He then picked her back up, smoothing her soft black hair with light touches, it was short but the ends were already beginning to form curls.

“Sherlock” John called out.

The consulting detective sighed to himself. “It’s time.” He told his daughter as he opened the door and walked down the hallway, past John as he set up the kitchen table ready for dinner and into the lounge. Mycroft and Greg were both stood close to the doorway, both had something in their arms. Greg a basket full of gifts and Mycroft a pile of books tied together with a ribbon, a toy bumble bee and a croquet blanket that his Grandma had made him when he was just an infant.

Sherlock recognised the books immediately. They had once belonged to him and Mycroft, leather bound copies of fairy tales, Austen, Alice in wonderland and The Three Musketeers.

“Gifts?” Sherlock asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Just something from the Yard.” Greg explained, placing the basket on the coffee table. Sherlock didn’t look convinced. “Sally organised it, everyone chipped in, and she wanted to show her support.”

Sherlock shrugged and turned to Mycroft. “Just some things from home.”

The elder Holmes handed his younger brother the toy. It was round and soft; bright yellow and black with large eyes, a smile, a red nose. With little arms and legs and small antenna’s at the top. Sherlock considered it for a moment, holding it in his hand before presenting it to his daughter. He held it above her, resting it on her tiny body. She reached for it instantly. Her tiny hands rubbing over the toys soft skin and fingers running through the fur.

“Hardly anatomically correct.” Sherlock mumbled after a moment. He didn’t pull the doll away though, he allowed his daughter to explore using her hands as he took a seat in his armchair, keeping a firm grip on his daughter.

Mycroft and Greg took the sofa. The auburn haired man crossed one leg elegantly over the other, eyes flicking over all the new things in the room, some were neutral, some bright colours and even a few pink but only a few. “I’ve taken the liberty of having a few things put together from Harrods, they’ll be delivered within the next few days.”

“You went shopping?” John asked as he came into the room, eyebrow raised at the government official.

“I had my assistant go shopping” He clarified.

“Pink” Sherlock muttered simply.

“The colour pink has been avoided.” Mycroft told him simply.

“What is your problem with the colour pink?” Greg asked.

Sherlock shrugged. “A girl should not be defined through a colour, especially one as frivolous as pink.”

“Ok, I get that but it’s just a colour. It doesn’t have to define her.”

“She can be anything she wants to be.” Sherlock told them, his daughters hands had dropped from the toy and was now looking around the room. “And until she is old enough to either like or dislike the colour pink, we will avoid it whenever possible.”

 

* * *

 

Mycroft cradled his niece to his chest protectively. She was awake and looking up inquisitively, blue eyes wide and bright. Greg was sat beside him, peering at the tiny baby with gooey brown eyes. “It’s weird to think that something so small could completely disrupt the lives of others.” Greg asked. He had kids of his own, he knew but he’d never seen so much humanity emulating from the Holmes’ brothers.

“Hmmm” Mycroft acknowledged as he looked up at his partner. “She predominates, does she not?”

Greg nodded in agreement. They both looked down at Maeve as she began to squirm in his arms, stretching out her scrunched up limbs and kicking wildly. The Detective Inspector laughed, offering the baby his finger and gently tickling her hands.

“Completely” Sherlock agreed as he re-entered the room. They had already eaten, he and John were now finished tidying up the kitchen. His shirt sleeves were rolled up to his elbows.

“She’s a baby” John argued as he followed Sherlock, rolling down the sleeves of his jumper. “She has no power except existing, you can’t blame her that she’s turning you all soft.”

“Soft” Sherlock repeated with a huff. He did not like that description at all, it was almost as bad as cute.

“And you’re not?” Greg asked teasing.

John held up his hands in mock surrender as he plopped into his armchair. “No, I’m gooey over her just like the rest of you.”

“She’s going to be a heartbreaker.” The grey haired man announced.

“Just like her father.” John joked. Sherlock choked slightly as Greg laughed wildly. Mycroft raised an eyebrow but didn’t comment, instead he focused on his niece. She was growing tired, quite content after being fed and changed, and now wrestling the urge to sleep. She continued to squirm and kick, fighting off her need for sleep, she released a distressed whine. The elder Holmes looked to his brother, at a loss. Sherlock crossed the room wordlessly, scooping his daughter up from his brother’s unfailing arms.

“Are you tired?” He asked as he brought her into his favourite position and started swaying side to side in small consistent movements. He knew she wouldn’t answer but it was fantastic to talk to her, better than John and his skull, she was the brightest conductor or light he had ever known.

“Poor thing, she’s probably had enough excitement for the day.” John sympathised with a weary smile.

Sherlock looked down at his daughter, her head was against his collarbone looking up at him, lip quivering slightly and she whined. “Aww, you don’t want to go to sleep, is that it?” Maeve whined again, distressed.

“We should go.” Mycroft announced rising to his feet. Greg followed his lead, rising to his feet and stepping towards the door.

“Hmmm” Sherlock acknowledge them but didn’t respond, instead he focused entirely on his daughter.

“Thank you for coming over.” John smiled.

Mycroft nodded and Greg muttered a farewell. The pair of them exited without a word. Sherlock then went into his room, with only a brief glance in his friend’s direction. He rested Maeve on the bed and got into his own pyjamas before picking her back up. He sat up in bed, lent against pillows and the headboard. Maeve pressed to his chest as he read out a story, Alice in Wonderland.

 

* * *

 

 

John peaked in on the consulting detective half an hour later. The silence was unsettling. He opened the door with care and peaked in, not wanting to bother them and his heart warmed at the sight of them, like a flower blossoming in his chest. Sherlock was lain down with his back against pillows on the bed’s backboard, head lolled to the side slightly and breathing even, mouth parted. Maeve was on his chest, lain on her front with her head turned towards her father’s neck, snoring softly into his neck.

The sight was quite becoming. He took a moment to take a picture of the pair, Sherlock would moan about it later but he knew the consulting detective would be thankful. He liked pictures and would want everything he possibly could to do with Maeve documented.

Then he slipped out. It wasn’t until he’d tidied some things up and started making his way upstairs that he heard a cry. He paused for a moment but heard Sherlock speaking and continued. He was more than capable of looking after his daughter.

 

* * *

 

Sherlock was startled awake by a cry. Maeve was awake and crying into his neck, tears wetting the skin there. His arm was resting on her back, a protective grip on her. She needed changing and was probably getting hungry again, he blinked himself awake while securing his grip on her and pushing himself from the backboard into a sitting position.

“Shhh…Shhh.” He hushed her, voice slightly rough from sleep but smooth baritone in place. “Everything is going to be just fine.”

Maeve continued to cry, not as loud but still distressed. He heaved himself up and went over to the changing table, placing her down on it. He unbuttoned the sleepsuit. She whined, a particularly loud sound escaping her lips. “Shhh, don’t be so silly. I know. I know.”

He changed her and re-dressed her before pulling her back against his chest. The crying faded out and her lip quivered against the skin of his neck, tears wetting her cheeks. “A beautiful girl like you shouldn’t cry.” He told her. “Because I will always be here, Daddy will always be here. I’m here.” He jiggled and didn’t stop until she’d settled down. Feeding time.


	7. Chapter Seven: Eight Days Old

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock goes to visit his parents and it goes as well as he expects.

John stepped into the lounge five days later and was faced with Maeve, awake and kicking sat in a chair that was a beanbag with a strap to secure her to it. She was dressed in only a bodysuit with no sleeves or legs, red coloured skin on display as she stretched and jerked her limbs.

“Hello.” The ex-army doctor greeted, kneeling down beside the baby so she could get a better look at him. Maeve gurgled and opened her mouth, giving the doctor a good look at her gums. He offered her his finger, which she took, grabbing on and pulling slightly in jumpy movements. “Where is your Daddy?”

“John” a voice called out from the kitchen. Well, that answered that question. The consulting detective poked his head around the corner to look at him, black curls sleep mussed and missing his pyjama top.

“Everything ok?” John asked, trying and failing to keep the amused grin from his face.

“Fine.” Sherlock answered, stepping into the room. The moment he was close enough Maeve started moving erratically, blue eyes bright and gurgling with more enthusiasm. Sherlock bowed down slightly, lowering himself to her level and smiled at her, running a hand over her head, smoothing her thin dark hair with great care. “I need you to watch Maeve.”

“Ok.” John said immediately, not taking his eyes off the infant.

“I need to shower.” Sherlock offered in explanation. “And to visit my parents.”

John’s head jerked up immediately to look at the consulting detective. “Your parents?”

“Mycroft insists that I talk to them.”

“You don’t want to take her with you?”

“And subject her to my parents, no.”

“Won’t they want to meet her?”

“There is no doubt. But I do not wish to overwhelm Maeve at this stage and this will be a tedious enough conversation without them fawning all over her.”

“I’m confused.”

“Don’t be.” Sherlock insisted. Maeve gurgled. “She is fed and changed, but needs new clothes. I will say farewell before I leave.”

Sherlock rose to his feet. John followed, unlinked his finger from Maeve’s grip and feeling guilty when she released a whine. “Sherlock, I thought the whole point of this was to introduce Maeve to your parents.”

“It’s difficult John.” Sherlock tried. “My parents are…particular people, they do not approve of me and my various lifestyle choices, a child out of wedlock and out of love will not be taken lightly. The whole conversation will be a dreadfully boring lecture to me.”

“Well, we’ll be fine.” John told Sherlock.

“Don’t be stupid John, of course you will.” Sherlock announced as he left the room.

 A moment later the bathroom door slammed shut, Maeve’s eyes widened slightly and John sat on the floor beside her. He wordlessly handed over his finger to her, she gripped it again and placed it into her mouth before John could argue. “That’s lovely that is.” John told her, voice forgiving. Maeve suckled on his finger, drool dripping down the digit and her chin as she began gnawing with her gums. “You’re too cute for your own good.”

 

* * *

 

Sherlock returned. He was dressed in a black suit with a dark forest green shirt, buttons undone at the top in his usual fashion. His coat was hooked over his arm along with his scarf, ready to put on as he stepped into the lounge. Maeve was lain on John’s lap, her head between his knees. She was still as he played with finger puppets, allowing her to touch them and even taste one.

“You leaving?”? John looked up at him.

“Yes.” The consulting detective answered, nodding and crossing the room in a flash. He crouched down and kissed his daughters forehead. She startled but didn’t cry, eyes focusing on her father’s eyebrows as he brushed a large hand over her hair, inhaling her scent. “I won’t be long.” His eyes flicked up to meet John’s for a moment before moving back to his daughter.

Sherlock stood up and left the room, looking back at his daughter and the ex-army doctor before leaving.

 

* * *

 

Siger Holmes heard the sound of the front door closing. Violet was in the kitchen and it was too early for Mycroft to visit, his elder son would be far too busy. He rose to his feet, shutting his book and leaving it on the table. He turned the corner and was surprised to see his youngest son, Sherlock, sneaking in like teenager. The older man was surprised at how little his son had changed in the two year gap between visits.

Sherlock’s hair was longer, dark and curling around his pale face. He looked thinner, if that were possible, like a gust of wind would knock him over. He was wearing the coat Mycroft had given him after leaving rehab the last time, scarf loose around his neck and wearing a crisp suit. His eyes were hard and face indifferent, Siger could recognise some discomfort in his expression.

“Sherlock” He exhaled, surprised by the sudden appearance. Sherlock huffed a breath, not bothering to answer as his stormy eyes flicked over his father. His dark grey hair was neat, dressed in a pair of smart black trousers, white shirt and a fitted grey jumper. Siger folded his arms over his chest, already losing patience as he kept his silver eyes fixed on his son. He asked, sternly. “What are you doing here Sherlock?”

“Anyone would think you didn’t want to see me.” Sherlock hissed.

He sidestepped his father. Siger rolled his eyes but followed his son as he marched through the house and into the kitchen. Violet’s face lit up at the sight of him, blue eyes warming. She was wearing a pair of jeans with a crisp white shirt tucked in, something casual. Her grey hair was pulled back elegantly, like it always was. Sherlock placed himself on the other side of the counter, leaving a barrier between them. His hands were in his pocket and eyes flicking around, trying to avoid looking at his parents for too long as he remained distant. Siger could have sworn his son looked nervous, something he hadn’t seen in a long time.

“Mycroft has been pestering me to tell you something.”

“You’ve relapsed” His father guessed, not a question, a statement.

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed and he snapped. “No.”

Siger did not look convinced, he placed a comforting hand on his wife’s shoulder. “What is it?” Violet asked, changing the subject swiftly with a wary smile.

Sherlock ignored her. His eyes unforgiving as he focused on his father. “I am clean.”

“For how long this time?” Siger asked.

Sherlock clenched his jaw, abandoning tact and blurting out. “I impregnated someone.”

There was silence. Siger could only blink in response. Violet managed to mutter in disbelief. “You got somebody pregnant.”

“Yes, we met in a bar and fucked in an alleyway.”

Violet looked up at her husband, not bothering to scold her son for his obscene language. Siger was having trouble processing the information, his eyes wide and not able to communicate anything at this present moment. His mother said, understanding. “And you’re sure that she’s pregnant?”

“Unequivocal.”

“How far along is she?”

“The 2nd of May.”

“The 2nd of May?” His mother repeated.

“The day she was admitted into hospital and gave birth.”

His mother was stunned to silence and Siger squeezed his wife’s shoulder. His thoughts were all over the place but he found his voice. “She’s had the baby?”

“The proof was left on my doorstep two days later, DNA testing proves she is mine, if there was any doubt.”

“She?” His father picked up immediately. “And what do you mean ‘if there was any doubt’?”

“It’s been brought to my attention how much she resembles me.”

“The poor thing.” His mother exclaimed, hand resting on her heart.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes, confused. “What?”

“She must be so scared.”

“Scared?” Sherlock repeated, completely bewildered.

“She was abandoned.” His father snapped.

“I am quite aware.”

“Stop being so selfish Sherlock. This is a baby we’re talking about, a new-born baby that has been abandoned. A little girl that is completely alone in the world.”

“Alone?”

“Where is she?” Violet chipped in, turning to look at her husband. “We have to find her. We can take her in.”

“What?” Sherlock was lost.

Siger provided, grey eyes hard. “We can’t allow her to live in care, she is a Holmes. That might not mean something to you but it does to us, if you won’t care for her, then we will.”

Sherlock stared at his father for a moment, then moved on to his mother. “I knew this would never work.” He muttered more to himself before storming out.

Violet called after him desperate for information. She was met only with silence and the slamming of the front door. Sherlock was not coming back. They needed to speak to Mycroft, he’d be more helpful than his younger brother. He’d know what to do.

 

* * *

 

The door slammed. John looked towards the stairway. Sherlock was back then.

He’d just finished feeding Maeve, she was against his chest with her head on his shoulder as he rubbed her back lightly. They’d been like this for the past five minutes. It had been a while since he had looked after a baby but it was similar to riding a bike, you never really forgot. They’d played with puppets for a bit before she had a nap and he read to her when she woke, fed her and changed her.

The consulting detective climbed the stairs with his usual fast pace, taking two at a time and pausing only for a moment in the entryway before coming into the room. He remained silent as he shed his coat and scarf, hanging them over the door.

“Has she been ok?” Sherlock asked, not looking at his friend and voice strained.

“Fine.” John answered, removing her from his shoulder after a particularly nasty burp.

“Good.” Turning gracefully, he lifted up Maeve as John offered her to him. He instinctively brought her close, inhaling against her hair like he had done earlier. The scent was reassuring.

“How did it go with your parents?”

“They accused me of being on drugs and proceeded to prove me right.”

“What? How?”

“They were disappointed and think I’m selfish, they want to take Maeve in and raise her because ‘Holmes’ stick together’.”

“But you have custody.” John deadpanned.

“They do not know that.”

“You didn’t tell them.”

“They didn’t give me a chance.” Sherlock argued.

“Like that’s ever stopped you before.”

“My parents and I do not get along John. We never have. They believe that I am spoilt and am wasting my life away, they do not indulge me anything John. It may be my own fault but we never got on, I’m not perfect enough for them.”

“Sherlock...” John trailed off.

“My mother is caring and compassionate, she sees past all my faults. She is kind, trusting and loving. This is everything that I grew to hate as I grew up, my mind worked too fast, it was too much from an early age and my attention span…well, I like things to be fast and explored. My father strict, firm and short-tempered, we have never seen eye to eye. They care deeply about reputation. This made our relationship worsen when I began on my…downward spiral.”

“They’ll find out at some point.” John reminded him. He didn’t seem angry or judgemental, just a warming presence.

“That’s exactly what Mycroft is for.” Sherlock responded. He shifted, holding Maeve away from his body at a small distance, holding her head in one hand and tiny body in the other. He smiled at her as she gurgled, blue eyes flicking over his hairline and eyebrows.

“Do you expect him to fall for that?”

“I’m not going to tell him.”

“And I suppose I’m not going to either.”

“If it isn’t too much trouble.”

“Fine but this will come back to bite you.”

“Oh, I’m quite positive that you are right.” Sherlock responded simply, smile still firmly in place as he watched his daughter.

“Lunch?”

“Starving.”

“Mrs Hudson brought up some steak sandwiches.”

“And chips?” The dark haired man asked, eyes widening and voice sounding like a child.

“Yes.” John sighed. He pushed himself up from the sofa and went into the kitchen.

“When did she wake up?” Sherlock called in after him, still observing his daughter for every single detail. He then pulled her back to his chest, cradling her and listening to her gurgles.

“Half an hour ago.” John responded.

“Then someone” Sherlock’s voice lightened slightly. “Needs to be put down for a sleep.”


	8. Chapter Eight: Nine Days Old

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Short and Sweet. Babies first real case, there are no crime scenes involved but a very interesting trip to Scotland Yard.

 

It was tummy time when Greg stopped over at 221B.

Sherlock was lain out flat on his back, a blanket beneath him on the floor between the two armchairs. Maeve was on his naked chest, resting on her tummy and equally as naked in just a nappy. He was wearing only trousers and socks, eyes fixed on Maeve as she lifted her head in short unsure movements, strengthening the back and neck. They had already used the colourful tummy time mat, now he was keeping her company. She didn’t like being left alone for too long and preferred to be in Sherlock’s company.

“What are you doing?” Greg asked the moment he stepped into the lounge. Sherlock had heard him coming up the steps.

 “Tummy time.” He offered, stretching his neck backwards to look at the Detective inspector.

“Right.”

“John’s at work.” Sherlock told him, the question hung in the air. “And Mrs Hudson is on the way to her sisters.”

“Ok.” Greg nodded.

“I can help with your case but I have no-one to look after Maeve, she’ll accompany us.” Greg raised an eyebrow at the consulting detective. Maeve continued to lift her head slightly before dropping it back down and resting on her father’s chest. She opened her mouth against his skin and dribbled. “Charming” Sherlock muttered.

“Sherlock, I do need your help but I can’t let you bring Maeve.”

“Why not?”

“Two women strangled within the last five months.” Greg spoke in a hushed tone. “The third was just found and we thought you might like to take a look at the scene now we’re officially investigating a serial killer.”

“As I have explained…” Sherlock started.

Greg cut him off. “Yes, I know. You have no-one to look after her.”

“Quite.”

Maeve gurgled against his chest, blowing a bubble of spit on his pale chest. Sherlock rolled his eyes but didn’t speak, instead he brought his hands up to her head and bum before sitting up, supporting her against his chest. Her hands remained on his chest, running over the smooth skin there as she continued to mouth at him, leaving a small puddle of dribble.

“Are your parents not an option?” Greg tried. Sherlock raised an eyebrow. “Of course they’re not.”

“It’s your choice Lestrade.” Sherlock told him as he got to his feet, turning to face the grey haired man as he considered it. “I can solve your case within the next few hours while looking after my daughter or I can go about my day as planned.” We looked down at Maeve as she occupied herself with his obviously very interesting chest. “We were going to go for a walk later, annoy Mycroft for a while and work on strengthen our neck and back. I also want to coax a smile from her.”

“It’s too early for that isn’t it?” Greg asked.

Sherlock shrugged. “It comes in the third week.”

“She’s only nine days old.”

“And she’ll be exceptional.”

“She might not be.”

“How can there be any doubt?” He said simply as he kept his eyes fixed on the baby so entertained with his chest. “Are we leaving then?”

“Yes.” Greg was defeated.

“Good.” Sherlock exclaimed. He allowed Greg to take her from him, peeling her off of his chest and disappearing into his bedroom.

Greg was left with a very unhappy baby, she whined at the loss of Sherlock as he settled her into his arms, cradling her. “Your dad is a bloody nightmare.” Maeve gurgled and squirmed in his arms.

Sherlock returned a moment later. He was fully dressed, now wearing a shirt and matching jacket to his trousers, shoes and socks. He had Maeve’s clothes hooked over his arm as he placed the purple carseat and baby bag on the floor by the door. Greg offered the baby to him and Sherlock took her with one long arm, hooking it under her small body. He placed her on the sofa and went about dressing her in a small Calvin Klein outfit, it was pale pink with grey hearts. A pair of trousers and hooded jumper over a white long armed baby grow.

“Her belly buttons fully healed then?” Greg asked, he knew small talk wasn’t Sherlock’s thing but it was worth a shot, he loved talking about his daughter.

“Yes, two days ago.”

“And has everything been ok?”

“Fine.” Sherlock lifted her up into a sitting position, a hand behind her head to support her. Her black hair was no longer or thicker than it had been when she was born, but it was now starting to curl at the ends. Her eyes were still blue, beginning to settle but Sherlock had noticed a slight change behind them. There was a hint of green appearing quite like his own and he could have sworn that he saw a golden fleck. He couldn’t be sure though, her eyes would still be changing over the next week or so. “I believe we are just about ready.”

 

* * *

 

 

Greg didn’t say anything when Sherlock climbed into his car instead of a cab, sitting in the backseat beside his daughter. He didn’t say anything when he caught glimpses of Sherlock in his rear-view mirror, eyes fixed to his daughter and talking to her in hushed tones. But Greg drew a line. The moment he waited by the car and Sherlock appeared with his daughter strapped to him in a light purple baby sling, he had to say something. The sling was hooked over one shoulder and under the opposite armpit, over the top of his coat and his daughter was inside it. She was close to his chest, face between his chest and the material of the sling, cradled like she would be in his arm but higher up and without the need of his arms.

“What the bloody hell?” Greg managed.

Sherlock’s eyes widened, confused. “You cannot expect me to carry her the entire day, I will need the use of my hands and she likes to be close to me.”

“Right, whatever.”

  

* * *

 

 

Either Sherlock didn’t see the looks he received as he walked in New Scotland Yard or he just didn’t care. Greg had his money on the latter. The consulting detective strode into the department with his head held high and one of his hands supporting his baby out of concern. He knew he didn’t need to but it made him feel better. Greg trailed beside him carrying the baby bag.

Sally twisted on the spot, eyes widening at the sight of the detective and a soft smile settling on her thin lips. She was stood in front of a board in the conference room. There was a map in the middle with lines joining them to the pictures of the three girls, all in their mid-twenties and with varied shades of blonde hair, surrounded by various crime scene pictures. Sherlock wasted no time in moving directly in front of the board and flicking his eyes over all the relevant information. 

“They were all found in abandoned or empty houses.” Sally told him. Sherlock hummed in acknowledgement. Maeve sighed sleepily against his chest, the rumble of his deep voice soothing to her. She continued. “He takes them and dumps them within twenty-four hours.”

“The gap between kills?”

“Two weeks between the first two and eight days between the second and third.”

“What’s the time?”

“Erm…” Sally shot Greg a slightly confused look but humoured the detective. “1:05.”

“I need to feed Maeve” He informed them. As if on cue Greg pulled a bottle and warmer from the bag while Sherlock went about unhooking the sling from his shoulders and cradling his daughter as she began screwing up her face in annoyance. He hushed her gently, voice soft and a small smile betraying him to the two yarders. “Oh, sweetheart, it’s time for something to eat.”

Maeve whined as she settled against his chest, not at all happy with being woken up as per usual. He jiggled her up and down slightly while whispering to her in his usual voice, just a quieter tone than usual. “Are you going to help Daddy solve a crime? Yes, of course you are, you’re a conductor of light, just like John, but better. You are far more intricate.”

“Here you go.” Greg handed over a freshly warmed bottle of water and a muslin.

Sherlock took the bottle and asked. “Is it the correct temperature?”

“I do know how to heat a bottle of milk.” Sherlock raised an eyebrow. Greg sighed. “I have kids Sherlock, I did heat milk up for them.”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow and shifted Maeve to rest in his arm, cradled against his torso and offering her the milk. She accepted it, small rosy lips parting sleepily around the teat. He went back to focusing on the board, stopping occasionally to watch his daughter or dab at her lips with muslin. Greg and Sally watched in silence, in awe of Sherlock’s natural ability to nurture his child. The consulting detective remained quiet while going about the task, not speaking again till he had the newborn settled with her chin on his shoulder, protected by a muslin and rubbed her back encouragingly.

“The boyfriend.”

“We questioned the boyfriends already.” Sally told him, voice still soft.

“The first victim’s partner.” Sherlock clarified. “He was dating both the first and second victim, the second’s victim’s boyfriend found out.”

Greg didn’t look convinced, in fact he looked quite clueless as he attempted to piece together the information Sherlock had given him. “Then why did he kill the first and second victim.”

“To cover up the murder, he finds out his partner is cheating” he paused while Maeve burped close to his ear. “He finds out she is cheating, follows the man and see’s victim number one. He’s angry, but smart, really smart, he doesn’t want to be caught so he invents a serial killer, kills the girlfriend of the man sleeping with his partner before killing his own wife, then he kills the third. Who’d suspect the second victims boyfriend?”

“Right.” Greg managed, gawping like a fish before he closed his mouth and turned to Sally. “Arrest the boyfriend.”

Sally nodded, before she left the room she told Sherlock with a comforting smile. “It was really nice to see you and Maeve, if you ever need anything.”

Sherlock returned the smile but didn’t say anything as the Sergeant left the room.

“Look at you shuffling work and being a single Dad.” Greg teased.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Hardly a difficult task.”

“You’re good for her.”

“And she for me.”

“Yes, I can see that.”

“Your parents, Mycroft mentioned that you visited them yesterday, I take it things did not go well.”

Sherlock huffed a breath as he pulled Maeve from his shoulder, taking the muslin from beneath her head before replacing her. He changed the subject, Greg noticed but didn’t comment. “He used one of his girlfriend’s scarves, traces were found beneath his finger nails and there will be burns on his palms from the material.”

“Right, do you want to look at some cold cases while you’re here?”

“It couldn’t hurt.”

 


	9. Chapter Nine: Ten Days Old

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock's parents finally find out that Sherlock has custody of Maeve, a visit may be in order.

“I can’t believe you didn’t tell us.” His mother looked hurt.

Mycroft frowned into his tea. He knew about Sherlock’s visit two days ago but hadn’t the chance to see his younger brother or his parents since. He put his cup back in the saucer and placed it on the table in front of him, keeping one leg crossed elegantly over the other. “In my defence, it was Sherlock’s place to tell you. I did offer but he insisted on informing you himself.”

“And you don’t visit for two days, two days Mycroft, anything could have happed to the child in that time.” She continued.

“Your mother has been beside herself with worry, we both have.” His father chipped in looking disappointed. He thought about all the times he’d seen his father give Sherlock that look.

“I do believe you’re being melodramatic.” Mycroft told them after a moment.

“The poor girl was abandoned Mycroft. She needs proper care.” Violet informed her son.

Mycroft’s eyes narrowed in confusion. “I am quite aware, she was checked out at the hospital after Sherlock found her.”

“And abandoned her again with complete strangers.”

“Strangers?” Mycroft asked.

Siger lent forward in his chair. “Just because your brother won’t care for the child doesn’t mean that we can’t.”

Mycroft opened his mouth to speak but his mother interrupted. “You must know something Myc, what does she look like? How is she?”

“She looks like Sherlock did as a baby.” He answered, head still reeling slightly. Sherlock hadn’t told them, of course he hadn’t. In his defence they probably didn’t give him a chance to. “And is doing exceedingly well so I am told, but you should ask Sherlock.”

“Why?” His father asked, confusion now dawning on his face.

“Sherlock has custody” Mycroft answered, fishing his phone from his pocket and producing a picture that John had sent him. It was a rather fetching one of Sherlock and Maeve during ‘tummy time’, the infant on his chest and holding her head up at that moment. He passed the phone to his parents, they were too shocked to talk and drank the picture in with overwhelming curiosity.

“Sherlock has custody?” Siger asked after a moment, grey eyes settling once more on his elder son.

“He insisted on it, quite smitten with her, no surprise though. She is dreadfully interesting.”

“You’ve met her?” Violet asked, still processing. “What’s she like?”

“Maeve” Mycroft substituted. “She is, well she clings to Sherlock and him to her. She would happily pass the day away in his arms just listening to him, he is quite attentive.”

“Attentive?” His father repeated questioningly at the same time his mother repeated.

“Maeve.”

His father added. “He willingly chose to take her?”

“Yes.” Mycroft answered with no doubt in his voice. His brother wanted Maeve from the onset, he could see it and Sherlock knew that. 

“But he’s never shown any inclination…” Violet trailed off, looking to Siger for help but he was just looking at the photo on Mycroft’s phone once more, eyes fixed to the picture of his son and granddaughter.

Mycroft frowned at his mother. “Would it have been welcomed if he did?”

Hurt flashed across his mother’s face and his father snapped out of his thought, looking up at his son with stern grey eyes. “Do not speak to your mother like that.”

The government official tensed and reminded them. “Sherlock is a good person and I have no doubt that he is a good father, he will only get better as time progresses.”

“Why didn’t he tell us?” Violet looked up at Siger pleadingly.

“I shouldn’t have been so hard on him.” Siger admitted, looking at the ground in defeat.

“It wasn’t your fault.” Violet grabbed her husband’s hand.

Mycroft watched his parents and quickly deduced. “You accused him of relapsing.” Violet managed a solemn nod and Mycroft inhaled sharply.

 

* * *

 

There was a loud splash followed by Sherlock cursing loudly. John smirked to himself from the kitchen and poked his head into the hallway. “Everything ok?” He asked.

“Fine.” The consulting detective called out after a moment. John chuckled and returned to making the tea. The sound of the front door caught John’s attention and he retrieved a few more cups from the cupboard.

Mycroft appeared in the kitchen doorway dressed in a grey three piece suit and looking fairly tired. The blonde took notice of the older coupler behind him, the man was tall with neat dark grey hair and an expensive outfit on. His wife was smaller and pale, her grey hair pulled into a neat arrangement at the back of her head.

“John” Mycroft greeted, a wary smile on his face. They shook hands and the blonde nodded.

“We weren’t expecting you.”

Mycroft acknowledged him with a smile but turned towards the pair behind him. “You’ve yet to meet, John these are my parents, Siger and Violet Holmes; mummy, father, this is Doctor John Watson, formerly of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers.”

“We’re here to see Sherlock.” Violet told him with a small smile.

“He’s in the bath but he should be out any moment.” John returned the smile before turning back to face the counter. This was not good. “I’ve just put the kettle on.”

 

* * *

 

 

Maeve kicked her legs wildly in the shallow bath, flinging warm water everywhere including onto the consulting detective. He cursed the moment the bath support jerked slightly with the force of her kicks and she gurgled, mouth threatening to tug into a smile but not quite ready.

“Everything ok?” He heard John call from the hallway.

“Fine.” He called back, pulling his knees back slightly to allow himself more room as he dragged the soft sponge over her delicate skin.

“You are enjoying this too much.” He observed, looking at his daughter with fake annoyance. The sound of the front door opening caught his attention. He sighed, that would be Mycroft and his parents. He ignore the thought for a moment and focused again on his baby. “They’re going to shout at Daddy, but they’ll love you. Everybody loves you.”

He pulled the plug and climbed out of the bath, tying a towel over his hips before lifting Maeve from the bath and moving her directly into his bedroom and onto the changing table, a towel spread out waiting for her. He wrapped her in it before retrieving a pair of bottoms and a dressing gown for himself. It was his warmer beige one, he kept it loose enough to reveal a large section of his chest. He dried, changed and dressed his daughter in her matching dressing gown. They were gifts from Mycroft, things he had purchased from Harrods.

“Into the firing line.” He told her, flattening the unruly strands of black hair.

Maeve gurgled slightly in response, blue eyes wide and focused on his face. Sherlock scooped her up and into his favourite position, resting on his chest with her head against his neck. She reached up automatically, her small hands resting against the exposed skin of his chest and mouth open against his neck. He sighed once before opening the door.

All eyes were on him the moment he stepped into the lounge, his parents wide with shock from the sofa, Mycroft twisted in John’s chair to see him and his niece enter. Sherlock read the dread and reassurance there, John just beamed the moment he saw them, resting on the edge of Sherlock’s arm chair.

“Sherlock” His mother started, voice soft and unsure.

“I gather Mycroft has told you everything relevant.” He interrupted, swaying slightly to keep his daughter happy while she mouthed at his clean throat. “I do not understand why you needed to come all this way.”

“How could you not tell us?” Violet asked, hurt.

“It must have slipped my mind.” He rolled his eyes, John stood up and offered him the seat. Sherlock took it, plopping down onto the black leather with his hands supporting the baby, she whined in annoyance but quickly settled back to exploring his skin, her new favourite thing. John pulled a chair from the desk and placed it beside his flatmates armchair.

“Be serious Sherlock.” Siger snapped, losing his patience with his younger son. Not that he had much tolerance for him anyway. John looked wary. “You just stormed in to inform us we had a grandchild and left.”

“I believe I said that I’d ‘impregnated someone’.”

“Sherlock.” His father warned, grey eyes hard.

Violet lay a hand on her husband’s clenched fist and tried. “We have a right to know about our granddaughter. Maeve is a lovely name.”

Sherlock hummed but said nothing. He wordlessly offered the baby to his brother, Mycroft stood up in a flash and scooped the baby from his little brothers protective hold, cradling her against his torso. Siger’s eyes widened at the sight, his sons were getting along and Mycroft seemed to adore the child as much as Sherlock.

“You didn’t tell us anything about her.”

“I told you that she was a girl and had been abandoned.”

“But not her name or that you had custody, that she was ok.”

“Now you know.”

“Sherlock, please be reasonable.” His mother pleaded.

“Like you were with me?” He questioned.

Violet look up at her husband pleadingly. Siger sighed but did as instructed, he attempted to talk to his son. “I was wrong to accuse you of what I did.”

“But you did it anyway.” Sherlock replied with nonchalance but there was hurt in his sea green eyes.

“It’d been two years Sherlock, what was I supposed to think?”

“You were supposed to _know_ that I am clean.” Sherlock snapped. “I’m sure Mycroft would have told you otherwise.”

The auburn haired man’s head snapped up at the sound of his own name, he looked between his parents and then back down at the child in his arms. “He does have a point.”

Sherlock did his best ‘I told you so’ look. Siger bowed his head in defeat, both his sons were rally against him and it just wouldn’t do, not if he wanted access to his granddaughter. “I’ve apologised Sherlock, there’s not much more I can do. We just want to get to know our granddaughter.”

“That’s not too much to ask.” Violet added.

Sherlock was pained to admit it but something pulled inside of him at the sound of his mother’s voice. He always had a soft spot for her, like she had for him as a child. “Fine.”

“Fine?” She repeated unsure. Sherlock jumped to his feet, clasping his hands together for a moment as he walked over to Mycroft. Maeve was fighting sleep, her face scrunching up much like it did when he tried to wake her. Mycroft stood in a fluid movement, moving Maeve away from his chest to give Sherlock the right amount of leverage to scoop her up. She whined in discomfort, squirming minutely before settling with a deep inhale and long exhale of breath.

The consulting detective then walked over to his mouth, stride long and strong. He stopped in front of her, the grey haired woman stood up and gazed down at the child with wonder. Her thin hand settled on her black hair, barely touching her but still just feeling the warmth and precious skull of the child beneath her. The baby’s eyes were blue; bright and inquisitive. She had no doubt that they would settle and match her fathers. She was gorgeous. The image of Sherlock as a baby.

“She’s beautiful, Sherlock.” She managed after a moment.

The infant was squirming in her father’s grasp now. His eyes flicked to his mother for a moment, she was always so caring and understanding as a child. She would make a wonderful grandmother. He explained. “She prefers not to be held this way.”

“How does she like to be held?” His mother asked, interest piqued.

“She prefers to be close.” Sherlock shifted Maeve, holding her in an outstretched arm away from his body and settling her like he usually did, face looking at his neck with her body supported by his hands and pressed against his chest. “She likes this.”

“Do you know why?”

“Skin to skin contact is very important, she gets to explore my skin and knows my scent. She can touch unhindered and can see me clearly.” He answered, happy to share with his mother. “She cannot only hear my voice but feel it, she knows my voice and face completely.”

“You like this position as much as her.” His mother commented with fondness.

“I can feel her whole body, everything she needs and feels I feel.”

Maeve whined, irritated and Sherlock shifted her slightly closer to his neck. She scrunched her nose but settled, mouth opening against the pale skin. “When can we see her?” Violet asked.

“Sundays, over lunch time.” Mycroft answered for him. “And I will see her Wednesday at three. Without fail.”

“What only a Wednesday?” Sherlock asked sarcastically.

“No, I will visit between then and be available at times for when you need a babysitter, as will Gregory. But Wednesdays will be set up for me to see her, in case I do not get the chance.”

“Fine.” Sherlock huffed.

His mother was still doting on the baby watching as her eyelids fluttered closed against her wish to stay awake. Maeve’s hand jerked against his chest as her breath evened out and she drooled on his chest. “Do you have everything you need?” His father asked.

“Yes.” Sherlock answered softly.

“Then we’ll see you on Sunday.” His father stood up.

“Sunday” His mother repeated, her voice full of love and excitement. Sherlock rolled his eyes and stalked out of the room and into his bedroom. He looked down at the Moses basket already set up, she slept fine in it but she slept better with him, and he with her. It would definitely be better, it would make him feel dramatically better after that conversation with his father. Wordlessly he settled against his mattress reclined slightly with his daughter across his chest.

 


	10. Chapter Ten: Thirteen Days Old

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft spends his first Wednesday with Maeve and Sherlock takes some time away from her, it affects him more than he thought it would.

“You’re early.” Sherlock announced, eyes fixed on his brother as he strode into the flat confidently, the older Holmes rolled his eyes but chose not to comment.

“And how is my niece this afternoon?” He asked, focusing on the baby that was just waking up in her Moses Basket. It had been moved to the centre of the living room and she squirmed beneath the blankets and released a high pitched whine.

“Quite content.” Sherlock answered for her, rising to his feet and pulling his coat on.

“You’re not going to stay?” Mycroft asked, curious. Eyebrow raised.

“You are perfectly capable.” He rolled his eyes.

“I just didn’t expect you to be so eager to leave.” The auburn haired man admitted. It was rather curious considering his brother had barely let her out of his sight since discovering her.

“I have some errands to run, cold cases to close. I may as well use the time productively.”  Sherlock stepped over the coffee table and stood at the side of the Moses basket for a moment, just looking in as his daughter woke up. Her face was scrunched up and glove covered hands rubbing at her still closed eyes. He leant over and placed a soft kiss on her forehead. Maeve whined again and started kicking more wildly. He pulled back and looked his brother, stormy eyes meeting grey ones. “There is milk on the table, I’ve taken the liberty of heating it for you, make sure to burp her…”

“I do know how to care for a baby Sherlock” Mycroft snapped, there was no bite behind his words, just faint amusement and slight annoyance.

Sherlock scowled but continued. “She likes to be close and listen to voices. Let her explore your face, it will help her get used to you and during tummy time she prefers you be on her level or she’ll get bored too quickly.”

“Sounds vaguely familiar” Mycroft commented with a knowing look.

Sherlock gave a brief nod and left, calling back. “Take care of my daughter.”

The slam of the door signalled them being left alone, Mycroft sighed to himself. Maeve blinked herself awake and stared back up at him, a curious look on her face. Her blue eyes were bright and reminded him of Sherlock as a child. “You do look like your father, don’t you?”

Maeve squirmed in response, shoving a glove covered fist into her mouth and grimacing at the feel and taste. She pulled the fist from her mouth, dissatisfied and looked up at Mycroft pleadingly. The politician took pity on his niece, scooping her up from the Moses basket and bringing her close to his chest. She gurgled simply against him.

“Time for something to eat then.”

 

* * *

 

After feeding, burping and changing his niece, Mycroft Holmes found himself lain on his front beside Maeve. She was on her stomach on a colourful mat with a cushioned head rest, she was holding her head up but Mycroft could see the strain in her neck as her fingers caressed the bright material. Mycroft caught the delicate face of his niece before it landed on the cushion, overly protective.

“Fifty-three seconds, you are improving.”

Maeve sneezed in response, small nose scrunching up.

“Bless you.”

“Mycroft.” John greeted him with a warm smile from the doorway, the government official looked up at him, and he found his lips tugging up into a smile in response. The blonde nodded and turned his attention to the small infant on the floor, she was attempting to lift her head again and look up at him. Her mouth was open wide and drool dribbling across her lips and down her chin. “Maeve.”

“I didn’t expect you back so soon.” Mycroft admitted, John was supposed to be working until six.

“It was a slow day, Sarah sent me home early, told me to give Maeve this.” He produced a small teddy from behind his back, it was a blue dolphin that fit perfectly inside his palm. “She’s going to pop round tomorrow and give Maeve the once over.”

“Does Sherlock know about this?” He asked as John crouched down beside the child. Mycroft turned her onto her back to look up at the arches above her with toys hanging down, the army doctor handed her to dolphin which she accepted with a growl like sound shoving it into her mouth with no hesitation.

“He insisted.” John answered. “Wanted someone he could trust, someone he knew.”

“I could have found someone.” Mycroft huffed, pushing himself into a sitting position.

“I know and so does Sherlock, but you know him, wouldn’t ask for help unless it was life or death.”

“That is the problem.”

“This is different.”

“How so?”

“He wouldn’t risk her life, not in a million years, he’d rather die.”

“Yes” Mycroft sighed. “He was always like that, life or death, all in or not at all.”

“That’s not necessarily a bad thing.” John reminded him, taking a moment to pry the toy away from her mouth only to release it and for her to throw it aside.

“No it’s not.” Mycroft agreed. It was surprising how much John Watson understood his brother. And he was constantly surprised by the similarities between Sherlock and Maeve, there would never be any doubt, she was hid daughter, through and through.

 

* * *

 

 

Sherlock climbed the stairs of 221B with caution, not making a sound as he avoided each and every noisy floorboard. He didn’t want to disturb them, he told himself. Mostly, he wanted to observe his brother with Maeve. He trusted him, as much as it pained him to admit it, he knew his brother would do his utmost to care and protect for his daughter.

He stopped at the top of the stairs, protected by the slightly open door as he peaked in. John was on his chair while Mycroft had Maeve across his lap on the sofa, head on his pillowed knees and feet kicking towards his stomach. She was squirming and gurgling, but not in discomfort. She seemed pretty happy with her uncle.

Sherlock took a breath before pushing the door and stepping into the room. Mycroft and John both looked up at him while Maeve’s eyes flicked around fiercely. He took pity on her and moved close enough to his brother so that she could see him, not clearly but still there. She released a growl like sound and reached her arms up towards him, or tried to but one arm dropped and hit her in the face. There was a split second when Sherlock’s heart stopped beating before her eyes filled with tears and she began crying.

“Oh dear.” He cooed as he picked her up effortlessly from her brother’s lap and close to his chest. She cried into his coat and he bounced her up and down, all the while whispering to her with his lips pressed against her forehead. “My poor baby, did you hurt yourself?”

“I think she was a little bit excited to see her Daddy.” John commented, cocking his head to the side with a small smile. It seemed alien, the word Daddy falling so effortlessly from anyone’s lips but his own. Mycroft smirked and Sherlock’s eyes flicked to the army doctor.

“Did Uncle ‘Croft do tummy time with you?” Sherlock asked her, voice rumbling in his chest and against her small body as she continued to cry. His lips moving against her forehead as he refused to peel them off of her skin. He ignored the looks that both men shot him, John in complete confusion and Mycroft in surprise, it wasn’t a nickname he’s used since being a child but it felt appropriate now.

It hurt. He hadn’t expected it to hurt so much, leaving her for an extended period of time. His heart thumped and stopped when he saw a mother walking along with a pram, it felt wrong, so wrong to be without her. He knew she was fine and that Mycroft would take care of her, he even found himself with his phone out and writing out messages to his brother before he’d delete them and pocket the phone again. But this, right now, it felt right. He sighed in content against his daughter’s forehead, watching the strands of black hair move before he closed his eyes.

“Well.” Mycroft said after a moment, rising to his feet. Maeve had quietened down. “I will leave you to it.”

“See you later” John nodded towards the politician.

“Till Sunday.”

“Sunday.” John returned, it had already been decided that he would attend.

Mycroft paused to look at his brother and niece before leaving. Sherlock continued soothing his daughter until she quietened down, lip quivering slightly but holding back the tears. He wiped away the streaks on the face with one long finger, she grabbed the offered digit and pulled into her mouth, luckily he had stopped by Mrs Hudson’s kitchen to give her something and wash his hands. She sucked lightly, toothless gums pressing against the pad of his finger with little force.

 


	11. Chapter Eleven: Fourteen Days Old

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock spends Sunday Lunch with his parents.

John struggled to keep up with his flatmate as he strode down the street. He was half-jogging to keep up with the long legged detective as he pushed the purple pram with great ease and care. He moved as though the pram was a part of him with graceful movements and simple flicks of his wrist to manoeuvre the pushchair. The ex-army doctor managed to keep pace but barely.

Sherlock looked mysterious and elegant, like usual. It was strange; to see a tall, dark and mysterious man in his billowing dark coat pushing a pram like there was nothing he’d rather be doing. “We’re going to be early.” He said for the fifth time today.

“Yes.” Sherlock acknowledged with a roll of his eyes.

“Why?”

“It’s safer.”

“Safer?” John repeated, confused.

“If we are late I will be lectured.” Sherlock explained. “I’ve got enough to be lectured on already, thank you and if we are on time my father will accuse me of being pedantic, I have no wish to be compared to my brother or father in that respect.”

“Your mother seems nice.” He changed the subject swiftly.

“She is” Sherlock admitted.

“Her face lit up when you let her see Maeve properly for the first time.”

“My mother is the lesser of two evils.” John raised an eyebrow and Sherlock continued. “She’ll only smother her to death.”

Sherlock’s eyes flicked to the pram. Maeve was fast sleep on her back with her mouth parted and breathing even. He dressed her in a white dress with a puffy blue skirt with white flowers sewn across the bottom in a pretty pattern, there were matching knickers that he’d put on her underneath a pair of white leggings and white cardigan. She had on little white booties, gloves and a hat to keep her warm, a white blanket with a bee pattern tucked around her small body.

“You dressed her up” John said knowingly. His mouth tugged into a smile.

“It will stop my mother from fussing over her.” Sherlock defended.

“Yeah right.”

“Fine” Sherlock sighed. “My mother will fuss either way, I dressed her up to demonstrate that I am a capable parent.”

“Of course you are.” John agreed, frowning. There was no doubt in his mind but he was aware of Sherlock’s parents doubt from the other night, there seemed to be issues that needed to be resolved.

Sherlock stopped in front of the large town house, John’s eyes widened but he didn’t comment. He knew that Sherlock came from money but a house in Kensington bloody palace gardens was not was he was expecting. A black car pulled up beside them, drawing out a low groan of annoyance from the consulting detective. The elder Holme sibling stepped out, hooking his umbrella over his arm with grace and straightening his suit jacket meticulously.

“You’re early.” Mycroft announced, checking his pocket watch.

“I am aware.” Sherlock snapped.

“We should get inside.” John said quickly, grabbing one side of the pram while Sherlock grasped the other and they lifted it to the top of the stairs. Mycroft followed, peering into the pram while Sherlock rang the doorbell.

A moment later the door swung open to reveal a very surprised looking Siger, he looked his son up and down before his eyes flicked over the others. Grey eyes rested on the pram and softened slightly.

“You’re early.” Sherlock rolled his eyes and stepped into the house, Siger moved back and opened the door wider to allow him in. He walked in backwards, pulling the pram along with him with great care. Maeve was starting to wake beneath her blankets, face scrunching up in annoyance. “She looks just like you.” Siger told Sherlock.

Mycroft shut the door, he added. “An almost exact image. Gregory sends his apologised, he has been called into work and shan’t be able to make dinner.”

Siger nodded, not taking his eyes off the baby as she blinked herself awake. She looked confused and annoyed at having to wake. Sherlock lent in and scooped her up with little effort, pulling her to his chest as she released a tired whine. She calmed immediately, dozing against her father’s chest. Siger managed. “Your mother is in the living room.”

Sherlock nodded once before leaving in the direction of the living room, John smiled at Siger before following.  Mycroft stepped closer to his father and warned. “Tread carefully.”

Siger shot a look at his son. “He purposely makes things difficult.”

“And you have a short temper.” Mycroft retorted.

“He knows exactly what buttons to push.”

“Then prove him wrong.” Mycroft told his father sternly. “Because if you get this wrong you will lose more than your son this time, you’ll lose the only chance you have of knowing your grandchild.”

 

* * *

 

Violet’s face lit up the moment she saw Sherlock. He strode into the living room with a look of indifference on his face. She got to her feet and stepped towards him. “Sherlock.” She whispered, still in disbelief that he was here and with a child none the less.

“Mummy” Sherlock returned. His cloudy eyes scanned the room quickly before settling on his mothers. She was dressed in a simple dress and cardigan, her hair in an elegant twist and eyes bright. Then he noticed some boxes and bags beside the sofa, just out of sight but still visible. “You didn’t have to.”

“I wanted to.” She returned, knowing that he was talking about the presents she had purchased.

Sherlock said nothing, instead he came to sit on the sofa that his mother had been sitting on to the surprise of Mycroft as he stepped into the room. He usually went for a chair further away. Violet retook her seat. He told her simply. “She doesn’t like waking up.”

“Just like you.” The sentiment was lost on Sherlock. “Her full name?”

“Maeve Alexis Christine Holmes.”

Violet nodded. Maeve squirmed against his chest, still in the midst of waking up and fighting against it. She released a high distressed whine to which John chuckled, Mycroft raised an eyebrow and his parents looked surprised. Sherlock angled his head to get a better view at his daughter. Her blue eyes opened and then closed, the natural light too bright for her. Sherlock jiggled her slightly. She blinked herself awake, wary of the light and confused by the strange settings.

“She is precious Sherlock.” His mother fawned over her.

“Would you like to hold her?”

“What?” Violet asked, startled.

Sherlock sighed loudly. “I abhor repetition.”

“Yes, please.”

Sherlock nodded. He pulled Maeve away from his chest and held her outstretched for a moment as she got used to the change before twisting slightly in the seat to get a better angle as he passed his daughter to his mother. The older woman cradled her in her arms, completely silent and holding her breath from fear. Her eyes were fixed to the tiny infant, blinking up at her with curiosity while Sherlock remained close, closer than she was used to with him. He quickly pulled the small hat and gloves from his daughter, allowing his fingers to caress the skin for a moment.

“Sherlock.” His mother looked up at him, tearing up. He looked startled. “She is perfect, absolutely perfect.”

Mycroft snorted. Siger came to stand beside his wife, looking down at the baby with wonder and curiosity. Sherlock visibly stiffened and John smiled at him reassuringly. A bang from the kitchen broke the moment, Violet looked towards the kitchen as did everyone else. Maeve jumped in his mother’s arms and instantly began screaming.

Violet looked alarmed but didn’t have much time to remedy that as Sherlock snatched the infant from her arms, his face full of worry. He pulled the baby close to his chest, his hand cradling her with great care as he bent his head down to whisper in her ear. “Shh, you’re ok. Everything is ok. Daddy is right here.” He started jiggling, moving her up and down while swaying slightly.

He ignored the shocked looks from his parents. They were looking at him like he’d grown another head instead of simply comforting his distressed daughter. Idiots.

“Oh, please, stop staring.” He demanded. “It’s unnerving.”

Violet’s eyes widened but his father just looked vaguely amused. “How dreadfully ironic.” Mycroft commented, he then turned to John. “I do believe my brother has been rude, he’d love to give you a tour.”

Sherlock shot Mycroft a confused look. The auburn haired man merely raised an eyebrow while his younger brother continued his ministrations on his upset daughter. Then it clicked. Sherlock’s eyes widened. Mycroft was giving him a brief escape. “How rude of me.” He said unconvincingly.

He gestured towards the hallway, the blonde looked confused but got up and followed him anyway. The moment he left Siger released a breath that he didn’t know he had been holding. Mycroft raised an eyebrow. “I told you he was attentive.”

“Did you see his face when she started crying?” Violet asked, beaming with pride.

“He called himself _Daddy_.” Siger spoke in disbelief, grey eyes staring at the doorway where Sherlock had left.

The sound of crying had stopped now, either too far away or completely stopped. There was a bang from upstairs followed by a crash. Mycroft sighed. “It’s like he never left.”

 

* * *

 

Sherlock ushered John up the stairs while comforting Maeve. “What are we doing Sherlock?”

“I thought that it was fairly obvious” Sherlock said, regarding the still crying child. “I’m giving you a tour of the house.”

John opened his mouth to respond but simply shut it again, there was no point. When they reached a hallway Sherlock gestured to one on the right side, he then went ahead and opened the door, stepping into the room quickly. John followed. It was dark blue, almost purple with charts and medical posters tacked to the walls. There were books and notepads in neat stacks and a desk covered with pieces of paper. The bed was large and made, grey sheets with a comforter and pillows. Sherlock continued to bounce Maeve in his arms until she was almost settled, the only reminder of her shock a quivering lip. With a dramatic sigh the detective dropped onto the bed, landing on his back with a soft thud and his daughter tight against his chest.

“Is this your room?” John asked, still looking around.

“Hmm” Sherlock hummed, he turned onto his side and placed Maeve on the bed on her back and watched her intently. She had calmed down now. He brushed his finger down her face and she grabbed it fiercely, forcing the digit into her mouth like her life depended on it. He smirked. She was a rather curious child.

“Why did Mycroft save us back there?” John asked, focusing on his flatmate.

 “Just keeping us on side.”

“This isn’t a game Sherlock.” John frowned as he sat on the bed, on Maeve’s other side.

“No, this is strategy which is what Mycroft is good at. He will help us with my parents and in return I will not associate him with them.”

“Why?” John laid down on his side, mirroring Sherlock’s position. He brushed Maeve’s dark hair gently.

Sherlock watched, fascinated. She had them wrapped around her finger, pathetic really. Though it was human nature at least that made him feel better. “He is on my side as he has said before and will continue to demonstrate it to have access to her.”

“You wouldn’t stop him from seeing her.” John said quickly. Sherlock could be cruel but it was an act.

“Of course not.” Sherlock frowned, his daughter was chewing on the pad of his finger leisurely. “A child deserves to know their family.”

“Even if it’s dysfunctional?” John asked, voice light.

Sherlock found himself smiling. “Even then.”

Sherlock kicked out, successfully knocking over a stack of books with a loud bang and sending a vial tumbling onto the floor. It smashed. Sherlock cursed. They would have heard that from downstairs. Maeve’s eyes widened and Sherlock instinctively focused on his daughter. Her breathing was rapid, her heat beating fast as she released his finger. Sherlock pulled her closer to him so she was nestled between his chest and arm on the mattress. She seemed content after a moment.

“Disaster avoided” John said into the silent room. Sherlock chuckled.

 

* * *

 

The tour ended in the kitchen. Sherlock was holding Maeve close to his chest, back and neck supported by his chest, sitting on one arm and the other across her small body to stop her falling. Blue eyes flicked around inquisitively. Violet looked delighted as he approached.

“Did you break something?”

“No.” Sherlock lied. There would be no evidence found.

Violet raised an eyebrow in disbelief and gestured towards the oven. “John, I do hope you like lamb.”

“Yes.” John said stepping forward. “Yes, I do.”

Mycroft appeared in the doorway to the dining room with a small smile on his face. Maeve started kicking excitedly at the sight of him. The elder Holmes mouth tugged into a smile.

Sherlock sighed and held his daughter out, Mycroft swooped in and pulled her close to his body. She immediately began kicking again and wasted no time in latching her open mouth to Mycroft’s neck, he grimaced but allowed it. Violet looked on the verge of tears.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and warned. “Don’t.”

A moment later he was enveloped in a hug, he sighed but allowed his mother to pull him close. “Sherlock I’m so proud of you.”

“This is far too sentimental.” He hissed.

Mycroft snorted. John didn’t bother hiding his amusement as he started laughing, Sherlock scowled at him but it only spurred the doctor on. His mother released him but kept her hand on his arm, beaming up at him. “She is a credit to you Sherlock.”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. His baby was currently sucking on his brother’s neck, small hands grasping the front of his suit. “She is a baby.” He said simply.

“You keep insisting that she is exceptional.” John reminded him.

“She is.”

“She’s beautiful Sherlock.” His mother insisted.

“Genetics.”

“The image of you.”

“Poor child.” Mycroft muttered under his breath with a smirk.

Sherlock shot him a look. “At least she doesn’t resemble you.”

“And what about her mother?” Violet asked.

Sherlock’s head snapped to her. “Deleted it.”

“What?” John asked.

“Deleted it.” He repeated.

“You deleted the mother of your child?” His mother asked shocked.

“We met in a bar and had sex in an alleyway.” Sherlock reminded her.

“It’s probably for the best considering the outcome.” Mycroft suggested as he stepped closer to his mother, allowing her a better look at the infant against his chest. Maeve abandoned her neck and pushed her face into his suit jacket instead.

“You remember nothing about her?” His mother pressed.

“Tall, blonde, tanned. French.” Sherlock supplied.

“Where is she now?”

Sherlock opened his mouth to answer but shut it quickly, he hadn’t even thought about it. He’d been far too busy with Maeve and settling her in to think about the mother who’d abandoned her. He looked to his older brother. Mycroft was shocked by the vulnerability on his younger brother’s face and offered. “In the wind, it is believed that she left for Paris from Heathrow the night she…” he paused, unsure and glanced down at the baby on his shoulder. “abandoned Maeve.”

“Will you teach her French?” Siger asked from the doorway, he’d apparently been there for a while just watching.

Sherlock gave a curt nod in answer.

“Sherlock is convinced that she is trying to smile.” John told them simply. Sherlock shot him a look.

“Oh, Sherlock, it’s too early for that.” His mother said.

“And she is exceptional.” Sherlock reminded them. “She’ll smile before her third week.”


	12. Chapter Twelve: Fifteen Days Old

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Molly finds out.

Molly dropped the stack of file she was holding the moment she saw him. Sherlock sauntered in with his head held high; black curls bouncing with each step and skin glistening in the bright hospital lights. He was dressed as usual, wearing a designer suit with a deep red shirt, the first three buttons undone to reveal the pale column of his throat. His coat billowed behind him dramatically, undone and his scarf hung out of his pocket. That wasn’t the reason though.

The reason was the baby that he was cradling in one arm. There was a deep purple bag hooked over one shoulder and a purple carseat in his other hand. “Molly.” He greeted with a thin fake smile as he approached.

“Sher-Sherlock” she stuttered, kneeling down to retrieve her files. He stopped dead in front of her. She stood up slowly, cautious of the files and catching a glance at the infant in his arms. She was dozing peacefully, dark hair peaking from a small white hat. Her eyelashes were dark and long against her pink cheeks. She was dressed in what appeared to be a cream Gucci coat above a simple floral bodysuit.

“You’re wearing new lipstick.” He observed.

“Yes, it’s just-I-” she trailed off unsure.

“It’s looks nice.”

“Really?” she squeaked. Was he aware that he was holding a baby?

He gave a curt nod. “It compliments your skin and highlights your eyes.”

“Sherlock.” She managed, fully aware that she was now blushing. “You have…is that a baby?”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. “Of course it’s a baby.”

“Whose baby is it?”

“Mine.”

Molly blinked, he did just say mine. “Yours?”

“Who else’s would it be?” He asked, curious.

“I don’t know.” The pathologist was suddenly very unsure of herself.

“This is Maeve, my daughter.” He introduced, Molly nodded still very confused. “The result of a one night stand, she has recently come into my care.”

“Oh” Molly exclaimed. Sherlock had one night stands and a baby, this was a lot to take in. “Where’s her mother?”

“France, I believe.” There was a flash of emotion across his face, anger and hurt. Molly was not used to seeing it. “She is no longer involved, never was really, it’s just me and Maeve now.”

“Ok” Molly smiled quickly, sensing the subject was sore. “Did you want something?”

“I’ve just come for some test results on a case I’m working.”

“That the body that came in yesterday morning?”

“Yes.”

“Ok.” Molly nodded. “This way.”

 

* * *

 

“You have questions.” Sherlock stated, not looking up from the Microscope. Maeve was asleep on his chest, one arm supporting her while the other fiddled with the lenses.

“I-yeah…it’s just” Molly started, unsure. “I didn’t know that you wanted kids.”

“I didn’t.”

“Right.”

“It was rather unexpected.” Sherlock admitted pulling himself away from the microscope and putting his other hand on his daughter’s body to support her a she slept soundly.

“You decided to keep her even though you never wanted children.” Molly said, there was respect and awe in her voice.

“I thought about it, when I realised she was mine. But the thought alone made me feel sick, made me no better than her mother. I couldn’t do that to her.”

“Her mother just gave her up?”

“Left her on my doorstep.”

Molly looked horrified, she was far too sweet and innocent. “That’s awful.”

“Quite.” Sherlock agreed with a tight jaw and curt nod of the head. Maeve released a high pitch whine in her sleep, drawing attention back to her.

“How long have you had her?”

“Thirteen days, she spent the first two of her life in the hospital.”

“And you’re already working cases?”

“Simply juggling being a single parent and work.” He smirked.

Molly smiled. It was good to see him happy. “Well I’m happy for you, she is quite lovely.”

“I know, would you like to hold her?” Sherlock asked. Molly’s face lit up. She obviously loved children.

“Please.” Molly nodded eagerly.

Sherlock bit back a smile and handed his daughter to the pathologist. Molly cradled her like a natural, eyes roaming over the baby in fond fascination. God, she just enchanted everyone she met. Maeve, such a fitting name. She was rather intoxicating.

 

* * *

 

“You could come over sometime.” Sherlock suggested, feeling out of his depth. Molly nodded. “To see Maeve, visit.”

“I’d love to.” The pathologist beamed as Sherlock strapped Maeve into her carseat.

“It will be good for her”

“How so?”

“She doesn’t have much female role models.” Sherlock admitted. “There’s Mrs Hudson and my mother, Sally on occasion but that’s all.”

“I’d be honoured Sherlock.” Molly smiled.

“I can be her father and mother in one but I cannot give her a female influence.”

“Whatever you need”

“Thank you for your help, Molly Hooper.”

And with that he picked up the carseat and left. Molly watched him go. Sherlock Holmes a father.

 

* * *

 

 

“Sherlock?” John called at the sound of someone coming up the stairs.

“Yes.” He called back as he emerged at the kitchen door holding the carseat with Maeve in, she was awake and squirming slightly. She did not like the carseat at all.

“Good time at the lab?” John turned the pot on the stove down.

“Hmmm” Sherlock hummed, he placed the carseat on the counter and undid the straps. He picked Maeve up and pulled her close.

“Solve the case?”

“It was a four” Sherlock muttered disappointed.

“At least you got to get out the flat for a bit.”

“To Barts, hardly an outing.” Sherlock scoffed.

“I’ve made dinner.” John changed the subject.

Sherlock nodded. “I’m going to change and feed Maeve.”

“Half an hour.”

“Plenty of time.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanted to get Molly involved and didn't quite know how to go about it, this seemed like the best way. There is no Sherlolly in this story, i just wanted the friendship to come across.


	13. Chapter Thirteen: Seventeen Days Old

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Violet Holmes drops by Baker Street, Sherlock makes an idiot of himself in front of John and the boys have dinner at Angelos.

Sherlock was upside down on the sofa reading book when Violet arrived. She stopped in the doorway, confused by the situation. Her youngest son was sat with his legs crossed against the back of the sofa, back on the sofa cushions and head hanging off the end instead of his legs. Maeve was awake and kicking on a colourful play mat that was right by his hanging head, eyes flicking between the toys on an arch above her and her father’s face. His eyes remained fixed on the book.

“What are you doing, Sherlock?” Violet asked, stepping into the living room with a delicate click of her heeled shoes.

“Reading.”

“Upside down?”

Sherlock snapped the book shut, eyes flicking to his mother. “Why are you here?”

“I was in the neighbourhood.”

“No.”

“I was.” Sherlock raised an eyebrow disbelieving. Violet sighed. “I was visiting a friend a few streets over and thought I would just pop in.”

Sherlock shrugged and placed the book on the sofa beside him. He craned his neck to look at his daughter, she was already rather board of the play mat. “You’ve brought gifts.”

“A grandmother can spoil her grandchild.” His mother defended.

“And an Uncle apparently.” Sherlock commented as he shifted around quickly so that he was sitting the correct way with his legs either side of Maeve. She looked up at him expectantly, mouth tugging into what looked like the start of a smile. Sherlock pursed his lips, he would get her to smile by the end of the day even if it killed him.

“Mycroft’s been over?” His mother asked as she crouched down on the floor to get a better look at her granddaughter.

“Later.” Sherlock answered. “He sent over a few things for Maeve though.”

“No cases?”

“Nothing above a four.”

“Sherlock” His mother scolded.

“It’s hardly my fault that there are no interesting criminals.”

“What would you do with Maeve if you were working a case?”

“Take her with me” Sherlock answered immediately. His mother looked horrified. “I wouldn’t allow her to be taken onto a crime scene, Lestrade or Donovan would watch her while I take a look at the scene.”

“She’s a baby.”

“I would never put her in a situation where harm may befall her.” Sherlock was serious.

“I know that.”

“Good.” Sherlock gave a curt nod.

“She already looks bigger.” His mother changed the subject. “Tea?”

“Two sugars.” Sherlock smiled. Violet rolled her eyes but pushed herself to her feet and went into the kitchen. He called after her. “The cupboard on the right.”

“How have things been?” she asked, popping her head around the corner for a moment.

“Since Sunday.” Sherlock shot back.

“I’m just interested.”

“Try, worried.” He corrected. “It’s been three days, what exactly do you think I’ve done in that time?”

“I’m not worried Sherlock.”

“Don’t lie to me” He snapped. “It doesn’t work, you know it doesn’t.”

Violet didn’t respond. Sherlock rolled his eyes, his mother would go out of her way to avoid conflict and smiled down at his daughter. She opened her mouth in reaction to him, blue eyes bright. He picked her up, careful to support her head as he did so and resting her on his knees.

Violet came back into the room with a tray and one of his nice tea sets. She watched her so, blue eyes pleading. “I am not worried about you Sherlock.” Sherlock raised an eyebrow. “I’m just…”

“Concerned?” Sherlock supplied. “Disturbed by the thought of me raising a child.”

“I never thought children were something you had considered.” Violet poured the tea and placed the cup and saucer on the coffee table that was diagonal across the lounge to accommodate the colourful play mat that was on the right side of the sofa.

“I hadn’t.” Sherlock admitted, he kept hold of Maeve with one large hand on her head and arm supporting her back while picking up the tea with the other and taking a sip. He held it out to the side, arm bent and out of the way of the baby on his knees. “It all happened rather quickly.”

“And that’s what worries me Sherlock.” Violet admitted, she took place in John’s arm chair.

“I have already been through this with Mycroft in great length.”

“You’ve talked to Mycroft.”

“Talked no, deduced.”

“You deduced?” His mother asked, outraged.

“When we took her to the hospital to get checked over. They let me feed her and hold her. I got…protective for lack of better words when I saw Mycroft. I thought he was going to…”

“Take her away?” Violet guessed, Sherlock nodded.

“It was an involuntary action, my arm tightened around her slightly. It’s the gesture of a protective parent.” Sherlock explained. He put his cup back on the saucer and shifted Maeve so that her head was on his shoulder and body stretched out against his body. She released a high-pitched sound not dissimilar to a scream, that of joy. “Mycroft does what Mycroft does, interfere. He was pushing my buttons and made me admit to myself that she’s my daughter. Then I stormed out, told them I’d named her.”

“And that was it?”

“Well, she is my daughter, obviously there was very little I could do.”

“But you wanted to take her?”

“She is dreadfully interesting.” Sherlock widened his eyes like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

“She’s a baby, Sherlock.”

“A very interesting baby.” He corrected.

Violet watched him for a moment. “And that’s it, you’re completely committed to be a father now.”

“God, no.” Sherlock scowled, the very idea was repulsive. “I am committed to being her father and I will provide Maeve with whatever she needs but I will not be a boring parent, I will not nag her to do homework or cook or even provide routine. I will be exactly as I am.”

“But she needs stability.” His mother argued.

“That’s what John is for.”

“What am I for?” John asked, appearing in the doorway looking slightly amused.

“Routine. Food. Nagging.” Sherlock told him. “Stability.”

The blonde rolled his eyes. “I get to raise two children instead of one, doesn’t make much difference.”

“Two?” Violet asked, confused.

“Sherlock and Maeve.” John clarified with a grin.

“Please.” Sherlock scoffed.

“You’re a child.” John raised an eyebrow at him.

Sherlock snorted and lifted Maeve up, John took her from him with a wide grin, and he greeted her. “Hello sweetheart, have you been good for your daddy? Has daddy been good for you?” He then turned to the detective. “Why am I providing stability?”

“Because I have little patience to do so.” Sherlock answered.

“You love looking after her.” John frowned.

“Yes, but when she is older and needs nagging to complete homework and eat vegetables and go to bed, you cannot expect me to do that.”

“Why?” Violet asked.

John sighed and answered. “Because it would make him a hypocrite, I nag him to do these things now.”

“I want to be involved.” Violet said quickly. “I want to be part of her life.”

Sherlock frowned and reached for his tea. “You’re her grandmother.”

“You know what I mean.” Violet frowned, it wasn’t an angry frown, and there was nothing behind it.

“Be as involved as you want.” Sherlock sighed dramatically.

“Really?” Violet eyed her son warily.

“I abhor repetition.” He threw his head back. “You can see her every Sunday, you can visit and we will drop in on occasion, you can watch her for long running cases, I’ll even spend a week with you during summer. I cannot raise her alone, alone I will ruin her. I want you involved, you and…father.”

“Thank you.”

John winced as Maeve reached up and pulled at his greying hair. “For the record you were never alone.”

Sherlock huffed a breath. “You hardly count John.”

The doctor frowned, offended, feeling like he didn’t matter. Sherlock realised his mistake and put his tea cup down, he stood up and darted to John’s side. Hand brushing over Maeve’s hair instinctively. “I…Th-That didn’t come out right.” He cleared his throat quickly. “You don’t count but you do.”

“Sherly, you are not making any sense.” His mother pitched in quickly. Sherlock glared at his mother for a moment and re-focused his attention on John.

“What I meant to say, is that, you do count. You do.” Sherlock tried again. “I knew I’d never be alone and you do not count in that regard because I know that you will not leave.”

“How could you possibly know that?” John asked, annoyed but putting it on more than anything else.

Sherlock gave him his best ‘you are an idiot’ look. “You’re always there. Whenever I’ve run off into danger or just needed a pen. When I said that you didn’t count, I meant, I include you with myself and Maeve, as one entity.”

“You don’t have to butter me up.” John smirked. Sherlock smiled in response and leaned in closer to the doctor and his baby. “Is Mycroft visiting tonight?”

“Later, yes.” Sherlock answered.

“Have you eaten today?” The silence was answer enough. “Angelo’s tonight?”

“Yes.” Sherlock nodded and turned back, putting some distance between himself and the doctor. He turned, his mother was watching him with a knowing grin. He suddenly didn’t look happy anymore. “Weren’t you just leaving?”

“Sherly” She scolded.

“Sherly?” John repeated, chuckling. Sherlock glared at him.

“I actually brought something for Maeve.” Violet reminded him, there were three matching bags by the foot of the chair. Sherlock scowled. “I actually think you will quite like these.”

Sherlock doubted that very much.

 

* * *

 

His mother had been right. He did like the gifts.

There was a coat, similar to his, very similar. A miniature version, down to the red button hole. It was designer and looked to be custom made, it was a few sizes too big so she’d have to grow into it. Along with that was a few pretty dresses, a scarf and some shoes.

Mycroft was with Maeve, they’d gone for a walk. It was quite a sight, his older brother with a dark purple pram. John was reading a medical journal in the lounge and Sherlock was tidying, tidying. He didn’t tidy. 

 

* * *

 

“Ready?” John asked as he zipped his coat up, closing the door behind him.

Sherlock nodded. He was wrapped up against the brisk night air, dark coat pulled tightly around him and scarf tucked in around his neck. He stood with his leather covered hands on the handlebar of the pram. His dark curls were blowing in the wind. Mycroft was stood beside the pram and his brother, wearing a long coat over his three piece suit. Both sets of eyes flicked to him.

“Am I interrupting something?” John asked, suddenly cautious.

“No.” Sherlock was quick to respond.

Mycroft smirked. “Not at all John, enjoy dinner.”

Anthea opened the door from the inside for her boss, eyes glued to her blackberry. Mycroft paused. “And Sherlock, Gregory and I will take Maeve off of your hands Saturday.”

“Saturday? What’s happening Saturday?” John asked, interest piqued.

“We are working” Sherlock answered.

“We have a case?”

“A private client, Mycroft is sending him our way.”

“Goodnight.” Mycroft got into the car, a few moment later it pulled away from the curb.

“Shall we?” John asked. Sherlock nodded.

 

* * *

 

 

“John.” Angelo greeted the army-doctor with a warm smile as he held the door open, his eyes widened the moment he saw Sherlock step in backwards and pull a buggy in. “Sherlock.”

“Angelo.” Sherlock returned. “Table for two and a half.”

“Half?” Angelo repeated.

“This is my daughter, Maeve.” He explained.

“Daughter, I didn’t know that you had a daughter.”

“It’s all been rather sudden.”

Angelo nodded and gestured to their usual table. He let Sherlock go in first, sitting on the edge of the booth with the buggy beside him, looking in at the sleeping baby while John sat in the window. “Anything you want, on the house.” And with that he ducked away.

“Is she ok?” John asked, picking up the menu out of habit.

Sherlock nodded. “Fast asleep.”

“You do know that I’d never leave.” John said quickly, suddenly the conversation was getting really serious. “Not before, and definitely not now.”

“I know.” Sherlock nodded. It reminded John of the way that Sherlock had reacted after their first dinner together, when he has said it was all fine and the consulting detective had considered him for a moment before looking back out the window for a killer.

“You’re stuck with me now.” John shrugged, smirking.

“Until you find someone, get married and have kids of your own.”

John looked like he’d been hit, more shocked than angry, and slightly concerned. “No, no, no.”

“No?” Sherlock didn’t look convinced.

“I’m not just going to up and leave you, this, what we have is fine.”

“We?”

“Yes, me and you.” Sherlock narrowed his eyes, trying to read the doctor. John seemed to realise the mistake. “And Maeve. Me, you and Maeve.”

“It’s not exactly…normal.”

“It doesn’t have to be normal.” John argued with a smile. “It’s perfect.”

Maeve whined. Sherlock jolted from the conversation, happy for the interruption but still wanting to hear more. She was awake. She was awake and kicking under her blanket. She didn’t look happy. “Ohh, dear.” Sherlock exhaled, he reached into the pram and pulled Maeve close to him.

“Are you ready to order?” Angelo asked as he returned, eyes immediately falling to Maeve and expression softening. “Sherlock, this little lady is the spitting image of you.”

“Hmmm.” Sherlock hummed softly.

Angelo turned to John, the doctor smiled and said softly. “I’ll have the lasagne and Sherlock will have the carbonara.”

“Drinks?” Angelo asked, struggling to keep his eyes off the infant.

“Water please, I’ll also have a coke and Sherlock, the lemonade.” John answered.

“I’ll bring those out right away.” Angelo disappeared with a nod.

Sherlock was watching John intently, Maeve already falling back to sleep against his shoulder. “What?” The doctor asked.

“You ordered for me.”

“And?”

“Nothing.” Sherlock dismissed quickly, John could have sworn he was blushing.

 


	14. Chapter Fourteen: Eighteen Days Old

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John talk...and share a bed, don't get too excited, Maeve is there too.

 

“John” Sherlock shouted up the stairs. There was no response so he ran upstairs with Maeve plastered against his chest. She was wide awake despite the time, 2:00am.

He stormed into the room, not bothering to knock. John startled awake, sitting up in his bed completely alert within a moment. Sherlock opened his mouth to speak but shut it again, suddenly very aware that it was early hours of the morning, he was holding his daughter and John wasn’t wearing a top. His eyes were glued to the ex-soldiers chest, he was tanned and muscular despite his time away from the army. The scar on his shoulder was mesmerising, still pink in the middle but faded into silver in the web of the wound.

“S-Sorry.” He suddenly stuttered, adverting his eyes to look down at his daughters face.

“Sherlock.” John scrubbed a hand over his face, voice groggy from sleep. “What is it?”

“I-well-” He struggled to find words that wouldn’t make him look like a bigger idiot.

“Is Maeve ok?” John asked, standing up and letting the covers drop. He was thankfully wearing bottoms, low on his hips, and the band of his boxers in plain view.

“Fine.” Sherlock managed, voice lowering down and speaking inaudibly fast. “Itsjustthatshesmiledandithoughtyouwouldwanttoknowimsorryitwasstupid.”

“What?” John asked, raising an eyebrow.

“She smiled.” Sherlock muttered.

“She smiled.” John repeated.

“I realise how ridiculous it sounds now.”

“You do, do you?” John teased.

Sherlock gave a curt nod. “I just wanted you to know, I forgot the time.”

“It’s fine.” John chuckled. “So she smiled did she?”

John angled himself so he could see Maeve’s face, she was defiantly awake and her mouth open, threatening to smile like she had been doing the past few days. “I took a picture.”

Sherlock reached into his pocket and pulled out his mobile, he handed it to John. The ex-army doctor looked down at the locked screen then back up at the consulting detective. “Password.”

“Deduce it.” Sherlock challenged.

“It’s _three_ in the morning.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes and sat himself down on the ex-soldiers bed, he then fell backwards so that he was laying on his back with Maeve sprawled on his chest. She immediately took the opportunity to grasp the front of his silk dressing gown and lift her head for a moment before dropping it back down and pulling it into her gummy mouth. “2511”

John’s head snapped up, eyeing up the detective. “Her birthday.”

“Sentiment.” Sherlock mumbled with some distaste.

John snorted and unlocked the phone. The pictures were already open and indeed Maeve was smiling, her small mouth forming a cheeky grin. He swiped through the photo’s there were about twenty all of him trying to capture her smiling and being rather unsuccessful in most. “Adorable.” John concluded.

“Indeed.”

John sat on the edge of the bed beside his flatmate. “Why are you both awake?”

“Fed her, changed her, she just doesn’t want to go back down.”

“You tried reading to her.”

Sherlock gave John his ‘don’t be an idiot’ look. “I’ve tried reading to her, holding her, singing to her.”

“Singing?” John asked, collapsing on his back beside his friend. “You were singing?”

“Shut up.” Sherlock glared.

“You need to sleep as well.”

“I am fully aware.”

“Just shut up and get into bed.” Sherlock made a move to get up but John quickly grabbed his arm. “No, here. I’ll get Maeve whatever she needs.”

John left the room. Sherlock was reeling, did John just invite him into bed? The consulting detective manoeuvred himself into the correct position. He fought his way under the blanket while keeping Maeve close to him. John returned with the long maternity pillow Sherlock used when Maeve slept in his bed, the bottle, muslin a smaller blanket for her.

In silent he moved the pillow into an arrowhead shape in the middle of the bed, put Maeve inside of it on her back and then climbed in the other side of the bed. “Night.”

The lights went off and Sherlock mumbled. “Goodnight.”

 

* * *

 

“Shhhh.” Sherlock hushed his daughter, holding her tiny hand in his own. He was lain on his side, arm bent and supporting his head. John frowned in his sleep as he began to wake up.

Maeve was cooing gently. Small sounds of content. She’d obviously been awake for a little while, as had Sherlock both were alert and communicating with one another. Not scrunching their faces of moaning like they did directly after waking up. “Are you hungry?” Sherlock asked her. “Daddy needs a shower, would you like a shower too?”

“M’ning.” John managed, yawning.

Sherlock snorted. “Sleep well?”

“Like a baby.” John confirmed moving on the spot to rest on his side, mirroring Sherlock and watching the baby between them. She had kicked off the blankets during the night, looking slightly flushed in her pale yellow sleepsuit and the small amount of hair on her head sticking up atop of her head. Her blue eyes flicked to John for a moment before returning to Sherlock.

“And the baby?” John asked.

“Perfect.”

John raised an eyebrow. “Good.”

“You invited me into your bed last night.”  Sherlock said simply. “Why?”

“So you could sleep.”

“My bed is just down those stairs.” He pointed out.

“And you wouldn’t have slept if you went down there, in fact, you would have found something, anything else to do.” John raised an eyebrow.

Sherlock huffed. “I am running some very important experiments.”

“Define important.”

“Non-harmful.”

“What is it about?”

“You wouldn’t understand.”

“Try me.” John challenged.

“It’s a social experiment.”

“About?”

“Maeve.”

“Maeve?”

Sherlock explained. “The various reactions to her.”

“And you were working on this last night?” John asked.

“I was compiling the data.”

“And this is an important experiment?”

“Crucial.”

“Go have your shower Sherlock.” John instructed, rolling onto his back. “I can watch her.”

“We’re having a shower.” Sherlock rolled his eyes and slipped to his feet, he picked up Maeve.

“Then go have your shower.” John pulled a pillow over his head.

Sherlock spoke to Maeve. “And he says I’m dramatic.”

 

* * *

 

Sherlock striped himself and Maeve. The shower was lukewarm, not an acceptable in his opinion but just right for Maeve, she was resting against his chest. She startled the moment the water hit her but quickly adjusted, blinking wildly and looking up at Sherlock for confirmation. He snorted.

Maeve began running her hands over his chest through the currents of water with enthusiasm. There was no water hitting her face, he’d made sure the direction of the water would hit only her back and his front. He needed to wash his hair…but that was almost impossible with her in his arms. Also, she was only allowed her own brand of shampoo.

He sighed to himself, sacrifices must be made.

 

* * *

 

“Bottle on the side.” John announced, not turning around.

Sherlock was wearing only a beige dressing gown, sticking to his still wet body and Maeve was wearing the same. An almost exact copy of his, though she had a nappy underneath. John was making breakfast. The blonde had a top and his pyjama bottoms on, greying hair mussed from sleep.

 Sherlock gave a hum of acknowledgement.

“Good shower?” John asked.

“I may need to re-think showers.”

Sherlock crossed the kitchen and picked up the bottle. John turned towards him, face almost in crook of Sherlock’s neck like Maeve on his opposite side. “You smell different.”

“We shared a shower.” Sherlock defended.

“And soap.”

“Maeve has special shampoo designed for babies.” Sherlock huffed, taking a seat at the table. John snorted in amusement.

“Stop sulking and feed your daughter.” John told him. He picked up two plates and placed them on the table, one in front of Sherlock and the other opposite for him.

Sherlock didn’t respond. He did exactly as he was told. He shifted Maeve to cradle in her arms and offered her the bottle which she suckled on immediately.

“And plans for the day?” John asked.

Sherlock shrugged. “I was thinking of taking a walk in the park.”

“Want company?”

“Don’t you have work?”

“Got a few days off.”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

 

* * *

 

It was cold. Sherlock was wrapped in his coat, the thick heavy coat and warm scarf. John needed a new winter coat, his jacket was doing little to keep the breeze out. The wind seemed to slip straight through the coat, jumper and shirt. Maeve looked toasty. Wrapped in a designer cream coat, hat, gloves and booties with a blanket covering her. She was dozing. Her face pink and nose glowing red.

They were making their way through the park, Sherlock pushing the trolley and John a little closer than strictly necessary. For a thin guy Sherlock was really emulating some heat. If Sherlock noticed, which he did, he noticed everything, he didn’t say anything. He just let the smaller army doctor walk briskly by his side, their arms brushing every so often.

“Nice day.” Sherlock commented.

The blonde and him shared a look, eyes meeting for a moment before the pair broke into a giggling fit.

“I’m cold.” John admitted.

“Not surprising, your coat isn’t exactly fit for this weather.”

“It’s the only coat I have.” The blonde argued. Sherlock hummed but didn’t answer. Instead he removed one hand from the handle and pulled John closer to his body. “What do you think you’re doing?”

“Keeping you warm.” Sherlock responded in his ‘John you are an idiot’ voice.

“It’s not exactly appropriate is it?”

“We shared a bed last night.” The dark haired man reminded him. John didn’t pull away but grumbled to himself as Sherlock somehow managed to steer the pram with one hand.

“With your daughter.” John added.

“Semantics.”

“Not semantics.”

“We also went on a date.”

“When?” John asked, wrenching himself free from the detectives hold.

“Last night.”

“That was a date?”

“Wasn’t it?” Sherlock frowned.

“What exactly do you classify a date as?” John asked, expectantly. They had paused now.

“When two people who like each other go out and have fun.” He sounded like a confused child. “You said it was perfect, me you and Maeve, you said it was perfect.”

“It is.” John confirmed.

“But not that.”

“We haven’t talked about that.” John reminded him.

“We are talking about it.” Sherlock scowled. “You said you wouldn’t leave.”

“I’m not going to leave.” John argued, Sherlock seemed like a deer caught in the headlights. He needed to be careful or he’d frighten him away. “I wouldn’t, you berk.”

“But you don’t want more?” Sherlock asked, confused. He shifted his eyes to his sleeping daughter.

“Do you?” John deflected.

Sherlock recognised this. But it was better to just admit it. “The women you date are insipid, I demand you stop.”

“Why?”

“You’re mine.”

“Am I?” John asked raising an eyebrow.

“Yes.” Sherlock hissed.

“You could have just said.” John told him. “Of course I’m yours.”

He leaned over and kissed the consulting detective on the cheek. Sherlock was frozen for a moment. They continued walking. “We’ll need to discuss.” His eyes flicked to Maeve, John nodded.

“Semantics.”

“Semantics.” Sherlock agreed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I will update as soon as possible.
> 
> I have tons of work to do but finish uni on the 8th and will be updating regularly once more, might even update later as a reward for finishing this essay (if i ever finish this stupid essay) 
> 
> Be patient, this fic has not been forgotten!!!!


	15. Chapter Fifteen: Twenty Days Old

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft and Greg have Maeve for the day.

 

Sherlock watched from the window as his brother left Baker Street. The government official had come to retrieve Maeve for the day while the consulting detective and his army doctor worked a case for a private client. He was in a black pinstripe three piece suit with a long black coat over the top, Maeve was in her own cream coat and pressed against his chest, protected against the wind. She had on a hat to match her outfit, a purple outfit with a cartoon racoon on the front.

An employee had filled the car with the necessary items while Sherlock watched, hiding behind the netting.

“Are you sulking?” John asked amused as he came back into the room.

“No.” Sherlock pouted.

“You are.” The blonde teased.

“Not.” He snapped.

John laughed. Sherlock rounded on him, eyes blazing. John tried to control his laughter to little success. “He’ll bring her back.”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. “I know.”

“It’s not an illogical fear.”

“I know.” Sherlock repeated, flopping onto the sofa dramatically. He landed with a soft thump, his face in the pillow and feet hanging off the end.

“Mycroft will take very good care of her.” John tried.

Sherlock only growled into the pillow and lifted his head enough to speak. “I know that John. He won’t let any harm come to her.”

“Then why are you sulking?”

“I’m not sulking.”

“Yes, you are.”

Sherlock leapt to his feet with inhuman speed. “I know Mycroft will bring her back and won’t let any harm come to her, he is very protective of family. There is nothing he wouldn’t do to protect her. I just…it’s hard.”

John pulled the consulting detective into an embrace. He stood rigid for a moment before relaxing into the touch. “It’s ok. We’ll work the case and be back for her before you know it.”

 

* * *

 

“Where to Sir?” Anthea asked. Her phone was by her side. Her eyes were on the car seat beside her boss who was glancing in at the squirming infant.

“Home.” He announced, not taking his eyes from her.

Anthea nodded and gave the driver directions.

 

* * *

 

Greg was in the living room when Mycroft arrived home. His head peaked up at the sound of the door opening and he craned his neck back to watch as his partner strolled in, umbrella abandoned in favour of holding his niece.

“Hello.” Greg smiled wildly at him. His eyes flicked over the tall man before fixing on the infant. She was dozing off against his torso, cradled in his arms in a loose but protective hold.

“Good Morning Gregory.” The red-head articulated.

“How did Sherlock react?”

“As expected.”

“He’s going to miss his little girl.” Greg voiced, pushing himself to his feet and coming to stand in front of his partner. Mycroft hummed and looked down at the baby in his arms, she did look like her father. He was struck with the image of Sherlock as a child, the moment his parents had first brought him home wearing a white sleepsuit, small strands of black hair sticking up. She was the same, cream coat over the top of a purple outfit.

“Have you any plans for the day?” Mycroft asked, eyes flicking to his lover.

“Whatever you want.” Greg decided with a firm nod of his head. He couldn’t resist running his thumb over the sleeping babies face, she didn’t stir despite her light sleep.

“I thought we could go for a walk.”

“The park?”

“Then some lunch.”

“Sounds perfect.” Greg nodded.

“We’ll leave when she’s up and fed.”

 

* * *

 

 

Gregory Lestrade never thought he’d see the day; Mycroft Holmes was strolling through the park pushing a purple buggy, his umbrella hanging from the handle and looking much like his usual self. Mycroft was Mycroft. He was tall, standing with his back straight and haughty raised chin…appearances must be kept.

“It’s a bit nippy.” Greg remarked as he jogged to catch up to his partner. “Is she okay?”

“Fine Gregory.” Mycroft answered, scolding the older man. Maeve was completely content, wrapped up in her coat, gloves and scarf with two separate blankets snug around her body. He was surrounded by a group of worriers.

“Just making sure.” The grey haired man defended. “Don’t want Sherlock to murder me.”

“He respects you far too much for that.”

Greg gave a look as if to say ‘if you say so’ and swiftly changed the subject. “What’s the case you’ve got them working?”

“Nothing to strenuous.” Mycroft barely contained the smirk.

“He’s not coping very well is he?” Greg asked, Mycroft turned to face him and raised an eyebrow. He clarified. “God no, I meant with the separation, he’s coping just fine as a father but the separation, that’s what he struggles with.”

“Sherlock does get rather attached.” Mycroft admitted.

“But now he’s got John.”

“Hmm, yes, Doctor Watson has been rather surprising.”

Greg nodded. “They’ll be good for her. Sherlock will do experiments with her and John will tell them both of.”

Mycroft smiled at the image. “And us?”

“Well I’ll be cool Uncle Greg, of course.”

“Of course.” Mycroft repeated like it was the most obvious thing on earth.

“And you’ll be the one she comes to when she needs help or just to talk. The Uncle that she loves but can be scary, you’ll tell all the teachers off because you wouldn’t lose it like Sherlock.”

“Sounds perfect.” The auburn haired man concluded. Greg nodded.

 

* * *

 

Sherlock arrived at 8:01, the case was finished and he wanted nothing more than to return to Baker Street with his daughter. The house was quiet, the door swinging open and bouncing off the wall loudly. John cursed and followed the taller man, carefully shutting the door behind him as he struggled to keep up with his partner. Sherlock was already off, eyes flicking over every room he passed.

They were in the lounge, at the back of the house, Maeve in a bouncy chair reaching up at the small soft toys dangling from the arch. Her mouth open and drool escaping, running down her chin.

“Case finished?” Mycroft asked, not bothering to glance up from Maeve.

Sherlock ignored the question. He crossed the room in a flash and knelt beside his daughter. Maeve’s eyes flickered to him in delight and she smiled, shoving a fist into her mouth in excitement. He smiled and pulled her fist from her mouth, now covered in dribble, and offered her his own finger. His daughter took the offered digit and placed it in her mouth with no qualms.

“You went to the park.” Sherlock scoffed, eyes flicking to his brother in amusement.

“What’s wrong with that?” Greg asked.

“Nothing.” Sherlock smirked. “Just imagining Mycroft pushing a pram around a park.”

John chuckled and Greg sighed, Mycroft simply rolled his eyes. “She’s been fine.”

“I have no doubt.” Sherlock grinned at his daughter. Maeve released a growl like sound of approval as she looked up at her father, still gripping his finger but no longer chewing on it with her gums.

 

* * *

 

 

Sherlock felt satisfied. It was a simple pleasure, his nose pressed into his daughter’s hairline and inhaling the calming scent of his daughter. She smelt clean and like baby powder, her own scent lingering beneath it. He pushed open the bedroom door with his hip and stepped into the room. The light was out but the bedside table lamps were on, John was sat up with a pair of glasses perched on his nose and a book in hand. He looked up at Sherlock, a fond smile settling on his face.

“I hope you don’t mind.” John gestured to the bed.

Sherlock shook his head. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

It was a ridiculous notion that he would mind if John decided to share his bed. John snorted, he shouldn’t have expected anything different, and if Sherlock had a problem with something he wasn’t subtle about it. “She ok?”

“Tired.” Was all that Sherlock offered. He clutched the sleeping child to his chest for a few moments before making his way around the bed and placing Maeve into her Moses Basket. She stirred slightly but didn’t wake, instead turning her head to the side and releasing a small even breath. Sherlock pulled the blanket up to cover her and watched her for a moment, her breathing was even, chest rising and falling.

“I’ve got a shift at the clinic in the morning.” John told Sherlock conversationally.

Sherlock nodded and slipped the dressing gown from his shoulder, letting the silk material pool at his feet. He glanced at Maeve one more before slipping into bed, the side closest to his daughter, beside the army doctor. He was on his back, looking up at the ceiling. “My mother wants to have lunch.”

“Anywhere special?”

“A café she frequents.” Sherlock sounded particularly disgusted.

“I finish at Eleven, I could meet you.” John suggested.

“My father will be there.” Sherlock added.

“Hmmm. You could come to the clinic and then we can go to lunch together.”

“Yes.”

“Do you mind if I read for a bit longer?”

“I’m not sleeping.” Sherlock responded, closing his eyes and going into his mind palace.

John watched him fondly for a moment before looking back at his book. Lunch with Sherlock’s parents, what could go wrong?


	16. Twenty-One Days Old

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock goes about his nightly routine while John sleeps and the pair go to lunch with Sherlock's parents.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel like I haven't updated in ages and will be rectifying that as I really enjoying writing this fic and all the lovely comments that I get for it. Thank you, I do really enjoy hearing from all of you.

Sherlock woke to the sound of a grizzly baby. He was a light sleeper and the small sounds of discomfort that escaped his daughter’s mouth were enough to wake him. He blinked rapidly to clear his eyes and adjust to the darkness of the room before taking a moment to look at John, he was fast asleep on his side facing Sherlock. The soldier’s lips were parted slightly as he breathed evenly. Sherlock smiled into the darkness, pushing the covers back so that he could swing his legs out of the bed but not disturb John by uncovering him. He took a single step to the side of the Moses basket and looked down at his daughter.

Maeve was in the process of waking, her sleep not deep enough to satisfy her tiny body and her hunger growing. He reached into the basket and scooped her up in a slow fluid movement as not to upset her too much. She fussed in his arms, a small cry escaping her lips as she started to wake up completely.

“Shhh.” He soothed, rocking back and forth as he kept his voice as low as possible.

With a glance of John, still sleeping happily, he left the room. In the kitchen Maeve started to fuss, releasing a cry of discomfort as Sherlock hummed a tune that he’d heard on the radio, it was a ridiculous song that John had like very much though it was designed for teenage girls. He opened the fridge, there was a shelf purely for Maeve, a line of pre-made bottles and soft teething objects for when the moment occurred.

Maeve whined.

Sherlock glanced down at his daughter, now fully awake and blinking at him. Her eyes adjusting to the small amount of light and recognising her father but still refusing to settle down. “Hungry?”

She practically screamed in response. Sherlock rocked her back and forth, holding her close to his chest. “I know.” He spoke in a soothing tone.

 

* * *

 

Sherlock slipped back into bed. John was still sleeping and Maeve was beginning to settle against his chest, she was full and wind free, nappy changed. He pulled the cover back over his body as he remained sat up against the headboard, cradling the baby against him as she defiantly fought off sleep. Sherlock offered her his hand. She accepted it hastily, small fingers grasping at him tightly as she pulled the hand towards her. He smiled down at her, allowing his daughter to pull his hand against her chest and direct his forefinger towards her small mouth.

He rolled his eyes. His daughter was rather fixated with his fingers and sticking them in her mouth, she had done it to others of course but favoured him.

Perhaps it was the taste. It was rather like a dummy, it did the same but wasn’t artificial.

“You are trouble.” He declared. His tone was low enough to not wake John but loud enough that she could hear, voice rumbling in his chest.

“Sh’lock.” John mumbled, lifting his head from the pillow and opening his eyes a sliver.

“Go to sleep John.” Sherlock told him.

John hummed and dropped his head back onto the pillow with a soft thud. “Night Sherlock. Night Maeve.”

“Goodnight John.” He responded. Maeve chewed on his finger lightly, gums pressing against the digit and drool smeared against her face and his hand.

 

* * *

 

John woke with a long groan, stretching his tired limbs as he opened his eyes. The room was light, the sun flitting through between the parted curtains and illuminating the room in a soft light. He reached out, hand meeting Sherlock’s thigh. He blinked and turned his head towards the consulting detective, he had expected Sherlock to already be up and out of bed. He was reclined, head and shoulders on the pillows. He was tucked under the covers with Maeve on his chest. She was chewing at the exposed flesh of his neck, her head resting on his shoulder with his hand on her back keeping her steady.

“How long have you been awake?” John asked, voice rough with sleep. He ran a hand through his sleep mussed hair and pulled his body closer to his partners. The lean man was radiating heat. He pressed his body against the consulting detectives, accommodating to the size difference by resting his head on Sherlock’s free shoulder.

“A while.” Sherlock answered. John frowned, trust him to avoid the question.

“Did you get much sleep?”

“A bit, between bouts.”

“She good?”

Sherlock snorted. “She refused to go back to sleep after the first feeding.”

“How did you get her back down then?” John asked, yawing against his pale chest as Maeve shifted with Sherlock’s help to the middle of his chest and reached out towards the army doctor, jerkily grabbing at his face.

“I held her and let her chew on my finger.”

“Yeah, she has a thing about that.” John managed, eyes closed under the onslaught of small fists grasping at his face.

“You’ve got two hours.”

“Huh?” John asked, creeping one eye open as Maeve descended on him, mouth wide as she bit at his nose. It caused no pain because of the lack of teeth but came with rather a lot of dribble. John scrunched up his face, a baby chewing on your nose was not the best feeling he had ever experienced.

“Till your shift at the surgery.”

“Plenty of time.” John agreed.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and peeled his daughter off of John’s face. She whined in annoyance but quickly settled down when she was placed on her father’s chest and had open access to the smooth skin. She mouthed at his sternum, tongue escaping to lap at his skin at the short hairs there as she explored with her hands further up his body.

“Breakfast?” John asked, resigning himself to get up.

“Coffee.”

“You need food.”

“We’re going out for lunch.” Sherlock reminded him.

John sighed. He pushed himself up, face hovering above Sherlock’s for a moment and placed a chaste kiss on his plump lips. “Fine but you eat at lunch.”

“Will you reward me?” Sherlock asked raising an eyebrow.

“You’ll have to find out.”

Maeve whined, lifting her head for a moment before dropping it back onto her father’s chest. Sherlock huffed a laugh and John chuckled. “God forbid any of the attention be taken away from you.”

“She is your daughter.” John argued.

Sherlock said nothing, he only pouted as watched as John left the room giggling.

 

* * *

 

There was a soft knock on the door, it creeped open and Sarah poked her head inside the office. “There’s someone here for you.”

John raised an eyebrow. He had just finished with his last patient of the day and was closing the file, which he placed on the neat stack on the corner of his desk. He huffed a breath and got to his seat, replacing the chair at the desk neatly as he reached for his coat and scarf. “Are they cute?” John asked.

Sarah smirked. “Adorable. You’ve really hit the jackpot with her.”

John chuckled. Yes he really had. He followed Sarah into the reception area where Sherlock was stood against the wall looking rather bored, Maeve was attached to his front in a purple sling and the buggy set up with the carseat in front of him. “Finally.” The detective muttered under his breath, faking a smile in the direction of the two receptionists that were fawning over him and the baby.

“Try not to start a riot.” John shook his head.

Sherlock glared at him. The blonde took the buggy and with a quick goodbye to his colleagues followed the taller man from the building. Sherlock relaxed the moment he was outside, not completely relaxed but definitely more relaxed than he had been a minute ago. There was still tension in his shoulders but he released a long breathe that he hadn’t realised that he’d been holding. The women John worked with were insipid, most women in general were, fawning over Maeve and him.

“Good day?” John asked. He’d managed to get the buggy out of the building without any help.

“Hmm.” Sherlock hummed thoughtfully.

“Solved any cases?”

Sherlock cradled the baby in the sling like he didn’t quite trust the fabric to hold her completely, he kept her steady in his large hands. “Two, Lestrade called. A five.”

John winced. “And the other?”

“A cold case.” Sherlock explained. “Maeve gave me the idea, she is fantastic really.”

“Anything exciting?”

Sherlock nodded as they began walking, he with Maeve cradled tightly against him and John pushing the empty buggy. He began a detailed explanation. “Two mutilated corpses…”

 

* * *

 

Violet had picked a table at the front of the café, in the window with a clear view of both the establishment and the street. The table was round with four chairs and enough room for a buggy beside the window, she had planned everything, well nearly everything. The location was perfect, a small tea room that she often frequented with her friends. Siger had been there on occasion and was remaining silent.  

Violet felt a pang in her chest for her husband. He was trying, as much as he could, it was no secret that they had a difficult relationship with their youngest son. He’d always been difficult even as a child and had favoured Mycroft, though he would never admit to it now, he was independent and had been since he was sixteen.

The older woman brushed an invisible fleck of dirt from her sleeve. Presentation was key. Siger was dressed in a pair of dark grey slacks, a black shirts and a blue jumper. Violet donned a similar blue dress with a matching blazer with white lace along the collar and a pearl necklace.

Siger nodded his head and Violet glanced in the direction. Sherlock and John were crossing the road, Maeve cradled to his chest in a light purple sling and the army doctor pushing the purple pram along. They looked happy, their son focused completely on the blonde like it was the most important thing on earth as they exchanged a smile. His eyes then flicked to them, noticing how they were sat in the window and his jaw tightened.

“Sherlock.” Violet stood up the moment they stepped into the tea room.

Sherlock managed a small nod in their direction, stormy eyes flicking over his mother and father as her kept a tight hold of the baby in the sling attached to his chest. John took over with a wide friendly smile and asked. “I hope you don’t mind Sherlock invited me.”

“The more the merrier.” Violet beamed, retaking her seat as the boys took their own seats on the other side of the table, back to the window with the buggy by Sherlock’s side.

“It’s nice to see you again John.” Siger smiled at the ex-soldier approvingly. John returned the smile and picked up the menu that was lain out in front of him.

Sherlock rolled his eyes, ignoring his own menu in favour of focusing on his daughter as she woke up prematurely with a groan of discomfort. He cradled the baby in the sling. “John.”

The blonde’s attention was on him immediately, brows set in worry but relaxed when he saw nothing wrong and understood what Sherlock wanted. “Need help?”

Sherlock grunted in answer and allowed John to unhook the sling as he supported the baby, pulling the fabric away and placing it in the buggy. Sherlock shifted Maeve into a more comfortable position resting against his neck with his large hand supporting her fragile body as she huffed, attempting to fall back to sleep. He looked up, both his parents were watching him intently and a waitress had appeared. “Tea.” Sherlock ordered, ignoring them all.

“Any particular brand?” She asked.

Sherlock waved his hand in dismissal. “Whatever you recommend.”

“I’ll have the same.” John smiled politely, trying to make up for his partners complete lack of manners.

Violet and Siger ordered quickly, afternoon tea and John took the liberty of ordering Sherlock and himself a sandwich that man wouldn’t eat unless you forced it on him, rich considering how attentive he was to Maeve’s eating habits. The waitress ducked away and left them alone.

“You could put her down.” His mother scolded, eyes flicking over the sleeping baby which seemed attacked to his chest.

“I know I could.” Sherlock immediately responded looking at her mother like she was an idiot.

“It’s not healthy…” she began.

“Leave the boy alone.” Siger interrupted. Sherlock looked startled ad his father glanced at him with some fondness before looking back to his wife. “He likes having her close, that isn’t a crime.”

“It makes the separation harder.” Violet clarified.

“There is no reason that I should be separated from her.” Sherlock spoke up, voice hard but low as he glanced down at his sleeping daughter, cautious not to wake her.

“Surely you’ll be sending her to nursery soon, to interact with other children.”

John answered for Sherlock, surprising Sherlock and his parents. “That’s a little way off yet. Sherlock is adjusting magnificently to having Maeve around, the flats never been so tidy and I didn’t even hear him get up with her last night. She seems quite content.”

“As content as one can be at 1:25am.” Sherlock added, glancing up as the waitress returned and set down a pot of tea between him and John, cups and saucers then the same for his parents. John took the inactive and poured their two cups, milk and sugar.

“Mycroft tells me you’ve been working cases.” Violet started conversationally.

“Anything interesting?” Siger asked, though he wasn’t fond of his son’s chosen career he was a fan of mystery novels, especially crime fiction.

“Dull.” Sherlock declared, Violet feigned shock and Siger smirked. The consulting detective found himself returning the smirk of amusement, his mother had always hated the way he had to classify the world especially the cases he worked.

“We worked a case for Mycroft yesterday but it’s all very hush hush.” John added.

“Barely a four.” Sherlock sighed in disappointment.

“Took you a day to solve.” John argued.

“Not because it was difficult.” Sherlock reasoned sounding like a child.

“Then why?”

“You know why.” Sherlock gestured with his head to the little girl sleeping against his chest, face tucked tightly into his neck and small even breaths ghosting his throat.

“Maeve is a brilliant conductor of light and without her near you struggle to think” John said as though he was reciting a script, he stopped the moment Sherlock glared and corrected. “No, sorry, you struggle to access your mind palace correctly when she is not near you.”

“She helps me to focus.” Sherlock sniffed, pointedly looking away from the people at the table as he picked up his tea and took a sip before putting the cup back on the saucer.

“And that is nothing to be ashamed of.” John added with a fond smile, he reached over and ran his hand down Maeve’s small back, settling on the consulting detectives hand for a moment. He drew his hand back and picked up his tea.

 

* * *

 

“Yes, yes very funny.” Sherlock declared annoyed as John and Siger laughed at a story that Violet was telling, struggling to tell as she chuckled.

“It was adorable Sherly.” She insisted, continuing with the story. “You were always rushing off doing experiments and that obsession with bees.”

“Scientific interest.” He corrected sounding bored.

“So let me get this straight.” John put down the sandwich he was attempting to each. “He just set the curtains on fire.”

“It was a…” Sherlock started,

“Experiment.” His parents finished in tandem.

Siger added quickly. “Something about the flammability of materials, the curtains were the only sample of that particular blend of material.”

“They were five hundred pound curtains.” Violet said lamentable.

 

* * *

 

“That went well.” John observed the moment they were alone. Violet and Siger had said their farewells and departed, the leaving the pair and Maeve standing on the side of the street.

Sherlock hummed and shifted Maeve slightly so that he could place her inside the buggy, she whined in discomfort as he strapped her into the carseat and pulled back. John placed a blanket on her, tucking it against her tightly like a cocoon as she settled back into sleep.

“Lestrade texted.” Sherlock said.

“Case?” John asked. The consulting detective nodded. “Do you want me to look after her?”

“No.” Sherlock answered. He leant over and placed a soft kiss on the doctor’s unsuspecting lips. “I may need your medical opinion doctor.”

 

 

 

 

 


	17. Twenty-One Days Old

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John go to look at a crime scene, Sally is left in charge of the baby and some family time whilst solving crime.

Greg’s eyes lit up the moment he looked up from the flimsy cup of tea in his hands to see Sherlock approaching pushing the purple buggy with John beside him. The Detective Inspector got up from his position lent against the wall and walked to meet them as they crossed under the yellow tape, he immediately peered into the buggy ignoring the adults in favour of the baby who had woken up on the journey. She looked up at him with wide blue eyes and growled excitedly.

“My favourite person.” Greg announced. He looked up at the consulting detective and ex-army doctor, who looked somewhat amused and offended. He cleared his throat and clarified. “Well she is part you and that by extension makes you one of my favourite people.”

“I’m hurt.” John announced, clutching at his chest dramatically.

“Piss off.” He snapped. The grey haired man immediately recognised his mistake and pursed his lips, chocolate eyes moving to Sherlock who looked like he normally did, rather serious with his lips pressed in a thin line.

“She’d hardly going to repeat it.” Sherlock said in a bored tone. Greg sighed in relief and hit John who was snickering like his friend had been told off by a teacher.

“Can I?” Greg asked gesturing towards the baby in the buggy with caution.

Sherlock gave a curt nod and his brother in law handed John his tea before he reached into the purple car seat that was today acting as a buggy and not a pram which Maeve preferred, he unbuckled the straps and pulled out Maeve. The infant stretched her body, pulling her legs up in her light yellow baby grow as the D.I cradled her, one hand supporting her head and the other arm her body as he pulled her to rest against his body. He smiled down at her fondly.

“The case.” Sherlock reminded him.

“Oh.” Greg exclaimed, forgetting where he was for a moment, he returned to the subject at hand while keeping a firm grip on the baby. “It’s a mess in there, we received a called at 12:33 of a break in, there was a scream and we lost the connection. A patrol car arrived at 12:45 and well, the place is a mess.”

“A mess how?”

“Go and take a look.” Greg instructed.

Sally appeared from a group of officers and walked over with a small disconcerting smile. “Everybody has cleared out, everything has been catalogued but we’ve left everything as it was, as instructed.”

“Good.” Greg managed. “Shall we?”

“Are you forgetting something?” Sally asked, she was met with Greg’s blank face so she gestured at the baby in his arms.

“Ah.” Greg managed.

Sherlock rolled his eyes becoming impatient. “You can watch her.”

“What?” Sally’s was taken completely off guard.

“I abhor repetition, you will watch Maeve while we take a look at the scene. It won’t take long.”

“Right.” Greg handed Sally Maeve, she took her without question.

Sherlock gave them one last look before heading towards the crime scene. John trotted to keep up with him. “Are you sure this is a good idea?”

“Sally is perfectly capable.” Sherlock dismissed.

He wouldn’t have left Maeve in danger, Sally was an officer of the law and happened to be surrounded by other officers. Nothing would happen to Maeve in the time it took him to look at the crime scene.

 

* * *

 

“Bloody hell.” John muttered the moment that they entered the main room of the house.

The scene before them was one from a horror movie. The room was in shambles, glass shattered across the floor and furniture overturned, complete disarray. The victim, a woman in her late twenties, positively identified as one Amanda Fowler, the woman who has called the police was on the wall. Her body was stripped of clothing and she was attached to the wall via thick iron needles through her hands and feet. Her head was bowed, throat slit and the source of the blood that had oozed over her body, down the wall and pooled on the floor beneath her. And the question on everyone’s mind was: How could one person achieve this and escape in twelve minutes?

Sherlock stepped further into the room, dodging the mess on the floor and coming to stand as close to the victim as possible without treading in her blood.

The blood streaks behind her hands and feet suggested she was struggling and the drips that she was alive when they nailed her to the wall with thick iron pegs. There was no possible way that one man could have lifted this woman and nail her to the wall while she was still alive. It wasn’t possible, even if he had drugged her it would have taken some time. “John, your medical opinion.”

The blonde looked rather close to being sick despite his becoming accustomed to such scenes both here and in Afghanistan. He found himself a safe path that landed him close to detective and peered at the body, eyes lingering on the more obvious wounds. “The cut to her neck.”

“I concur.” Sherlock agreed. “And it would have taken how long for her to bleed out?”

“The cut is deep.” John observed. “Maximum four minutes.”   

“Then how could one person subdue her, given that she put up quite a fight” he gestured to the room around them in disarray. “Nail her to the wall still alive and then cut her throat in the space of twelve minutes?”

Neither John or Lestrade answered, they didn’t have to. The question was rhetorical, Sherlock was using them as a sound board nothing more, and even if they wanted to answer they couldn’t. It wasn’t possible.

“Finally a decent murder.” Sherlock exhaled looking far too happy. He clapped his hands together and left the room. John rolled his eyes and Greg said nothing, he looked a little queasy in fact.

 

* * *

 

Sally Donovan had done a lot of things in her life but this was by far the most difficult. The baby, Maeve, little Maeve Holmes had started fussing the moment that she left Greg’s arms. She doubted it was anything personal, the infant knew Greg better and preferred the company of people she knew.

She started wiggling in Sally’s grasp which was not too tight as to hurt her but tight enough to be secure, she’d held a baby before. She wore a light yellow baby grow with a cream coloured Gucci coat over the top. The kid was better dressed than her and she was only a few weeks old. Sally had never owned anything with a label like Gucci.

Maeve whined loudly and Sally cursed under her breath. She tried in as soothing tone as she could muster as she began rocking the baby back and forth slightly. “Everything’s fine, you’re fine, I’m fine, you’re dads fine.”

The baby gurgle slightly. At least she was whining or worst crying.

Sally had to admit that she was cute, Greg had been gushing about her all morning after spending the day with her yesterday and yes, she knew Maeve was cute but now holding her in her arms, she was struck with how beautiful a baby she was. It shouldn’t have surprised her. Sherlock was very attractive, she would go as far as to call him beautiful with his pale skin and dark hair, plump rosy lips and those eyes. They were amazing, intense and full of colour: blue, green, brown, gold. Maeve’s eyes were blue, they hadn’t settled yet but Sally wondered if she’d have his eyes. She was the image of him so far. Though not as slim, her face plump like all babies should be with rounded cheeks though she doubted that the infant would have them long. She’d look exactly like the consulting detective soon enough, her hair was the same shade, almost black and the longer strands beginning to curl like his.

What had her mother looked like?

Who was her mother?

She heard them before she saw them. Sherlock striding from the building with John and Greg behind him, still talking about the crime scene.

“I’ll need everything you have.” Sherlock instructed as he crossed the cordoned off area to Sally, he stopped directly in front of her eyes immediately settling on Maeve. She was wriggling but no longer whining.

Sherlock picked her up wordlessly, scooping her up from Sally’s arms and resting her against his chest. Maeve gurgled enthusiastically before plunging into her coat, hands grasping at the fabric as she smiled wildly. He then glanced at Sally. “Thank you.”

“No problem.” Sally managed. She walked away back towards the group of officers outside of the house.

“I’ll come over when we’ve finished processing the scene.” Greg told him.

Sherlock nodded and John uttered. “Better than a four?”

“A seven.” Sherlock declared. The creepy ‘I’ve found a case’ smile was gone and replaced with a fond look directed at his daughter.

“Best get home then.” John said simply.

 

* * *

 

“Where’s Maeve?” John asked panicked, almost dropping the tea as he re-entered the room.

Sherlock sighed dramatically and turned away from the mirror which he had already littered in pieces of paper that could be somewhat relevant to the case they were on. Maeve was cradled in the sling, attached to his front and seemingly invisible from behind as it was over his shirt and under his open dressing gown. He was holding a bottle to her lips which she suckled from with enthusiasm.

John put the cups down and put a hand over his heart, breathing loudly in relief. “I thought…”

“We could hardly have lost her John we’ve only been home for twenty minutes.” Sherlock scolded, his lips tugging into an amused smile.

“Shut up.” John muttered dropping into his chair

“Beside I am a genius, I could never lose her.”

“Piss off.”

“Or what?” Sherlock asked challengingly. Maeve twisted her face around spreading milk over her lips and cheeks, he pulled the bottle away. She was finished eating then. He picked up a muslin from the desk and dabbed at the milk collecting on her face.

“Stop it.” John raised an eyebrow. “You have a baby to look after.”

“She does sleep.” Sherlock reminded him like he was an idiot.

“You have a case.”

“Yes, a case. Maybe another time.” Sherlock smirked at him suggestively.

“Stop teasing.” John commanded and Sherlock raised his eyebrow.

“Who’s teasing?”

“You are, you always are.”

“You don’t mind.” Sherlock said simply.

“The case.”

“Stop distracting me I’m working a case.” He said simply, not meaning it as he turned back to the mirror. Maeve whined loudly and Sherlock glanced down and told her. “You can distract me to your heart’s content.”

That seemed to please her as she gurgled happily in the sling, bouncing her body slightly in the secure harness. John asked simply. “Do you want me to burp her for you?”

“Yes.” Sherlock answered, elongating the ‘s’ slightly as he unhooked the sling with practised ease and handed Maeve to John, he took her gladly with a smile.

“You’re daddy is crazy, absolutely bonkers.” He told her as he settled her in the correct position on his shoulder, with a muslin protecting his clothes as he rubbed her back to encourage any trapped wind to leave her. Sherlock glared at him in the mirror but he ignored it.

“She needs to do tummy time and then she can sit in her bouncy chair.” Sherlock told him. God, he hated the lexis used in kids activities, it was distasteful but needed apparently. Tummy time was a crucial part of her development, to strengthen her neck and back. The bouncy chair was a simple seat for her to enjoy, bright material with an arch and toys to sit above her body that moved with her own movements, she seemed to enjoy it somewhat and it meant that he could get on without holding her (not that he found that a hardship).

“Ok” John responded. If he didn’t respond then Sherlock would just get annoyed with him.

 

* * *

 

“John” Sherlock announced. He blinked rapidly. It was dark, it hadn’t been dark before.

The consulting detective had been in his mind palace and had been for a while. The clock read 8:23. He turned, the tummy time mat was still on the floor as was Maeve’s bouncy chair that was facing Johns, there was a book on the arm of his chair, open, Alice in Wonderland. Another bottle. But no John or Maeve.

He stood up and walked towards his bedroom. The door was slightly ajar and the room dark except for the small nightlight that he’d purchased for Maeve, it projected the stairs onto the walls and ceilings in a light blue light. John was asleep, lain on his back with one arm over his chest and the other around the long pillow he’d purchased much like someone would hug a partner. The pillow was in an arrow shape and inside was his daughter sleeping soundly, her breath coming out evenly with tiny snores escaping her. She was now in a simple white baby grow with a blanket covering her, the pillow making sure she did not move in her sleep or hurt herself.

Sherlock smirked to himself, leaving the room and closing the door behind him quietly.

 

* * *

 

There was a loud crash from the alleyway, similar to the sound of that CIA agent landing on Mrs Hudson’s bins followed by a scream, the scream of an animal, a cat then. The sound of crying caught his ears. Sherlock was up and in the bedroom within a few seconds. Maeve was crying, her face red and tears streaming down her cheeks. John had darted up and was in the process of scooping her up.

“It’s ok.” John muttered, voice rough with sleep and as soft as he could muster given the time. He pulled her close. John turned to look at Sherlock and told Maeve. “Daddy’s here.”

Sherlock walked around the side of the bed, discarding the pillow that she was laying on previously and sitting up on the bed beside John, legs crossed as he took Maeve from John. She grumbled during the transfer and continued to cry as Sherlock began rocking her slightly, cradling her to his body. “Shhh, it was only a cat. No need to get upset.”

“You still working the case?” John asked, yawning.

Sherlock nodded and continued to sooth his daughter. “Daddy’s here.”

“How’s it going?” John laid back down on the bed, looking up at Sherlock from between his lashes as he fought the urge to rub at his eyes. He didn’t want to wake himself up further and not be able to sleep later.

“I’ve found two cold cases that share similarities with the case.”

“What similarities?”

Sherlock answered in a soothing tone as Maeve stopped cry and began to settle down again. “The metal nails have been used in two other cases but not with the same M.O, they were overdoses. He’s been practising, working his way up to this, but why her? It must be someone close, a boyfriend or brother.”

“You want to question the boyfriend tomorrow?”

“Yes, go back to sleep. I’ll settle Maeve back down.”

“Are you sure?” John asked.

“Yes.” Sherlock answered simply. “Goodnight John.”

“Goodnight Sherlock.” John muttered sleepily, settling back down underneath the covers as Sherlock stood up and rocked Maeve back to sleep. He put her in her Moses basket when she was dozing again and left, leaving the door open slightly.


	18. Chapter Eighteen: Twenty-Two Days Old

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John start working the case with baby Maeve in tow, Sherlock finds the clue he needs.

 

“I hate you.” Sherlock told Maeve with no real venom behind his voice, instead he sounded far too amused.

The baby in question was resting over his shoulder after he had fed, burped her and decided the moment he removed the muslin to spit up milk over his shoulder and down his back. He wished it was only his pyjamas but he was freshly cleaned and dressed in a new suit, jacket hung over the back of the chair.

“Do you want me to take her?” John asked as he stepped into the room wearing only his dressing gown, it was navy blue with white horizontal stripes in pairs of two, outlined in thin black lines. His hair was wet and messed from towel drying it and said towel was hooked over his shoulder. He looked far too amused for the situation.

“Yes.” Sherlock answered simply, pulling Maeve away from his body and checking her in case she wanted to be sick again. He handed her over to John, who immediately pulled her onto the shoulder with the towel and used his free hand to dab the towel on her mouth, cleaning her of any remaining sick. “Little terror.”

“She hardly meant to be sick on you.” John reminded him as he plopped down in his seat and positioned Maeve on his lap into a sitting position, his hand on her head and arm supporting her spine. She smiled which John returned apparently liking this position.

“She planned it.” Sherlock accused as he unbuttoned his shirt. John snorted. He continued. “She waited until I had showered and changed.”

“That doesn’t mean anything.” John said in a child friendly voice, watching Maeve as she waved her arms in the air excitedly.

“It means she doesn’t like this shirt.” The consulting detective concluded with a pout, he pulled off his shirt and disappeared into the kitchen. He returned a moment later with a new shirt and his dark blue and red tartan dressing gown hooked over his arm.

“Yoo-hoo.” Mrs Hudson called as she entered the room. Her face lit up when she spotted Maeve on John’s legs smiling at the army doctor. She held a tray with a pot of tea, saucers and cups. It was her white set with butterflies on, a present from Sherlock a few Christmas’ ago and she only got it out when making the boys tea or for special guests.

“Good morning Mrs Hudson.” John greeted, looking up from Maeve to smile at his landlady before looking back at Maeve and making faces at her. He’d seen Sherlock do it a few times in the hopes that she would copy, it was also a good exercise to learn the muscles in her face.

“Isn’t she getting big now?” Mrs Hudson asked. She leant over to smile at Maeve.

Sherlock snorted. She was hardly big. Yes she’d grown slightly, putting on a healthy amount of weight considering that she was tiny when she had arrived wearing the new-born baby grow which was slightly too big. It fit her snuggly now and she would be wearing the next size up soon.

Mrs Hudson poured the tea and then gestured to Maeve. “Can I hold her?”

John smiled lovingly at his landlady. “Of course you can.”

Mrs Hudson took Maeve from John and the blonde. Sherlock pulled on his shirt and dressing gown, turning back to the mirror. They had a case to solve after all, they would leave once John was dressed, they had tea and Maeve was fed, again. It seemed to be all she did, eat and sleep. Not that he was surprised, just annoyed. He wanted to see some more important milestones.

“Are you boys out today?” Mrs Hudson asked. She’d settled Maeve into her bouncy chair and was watching her from the sofa.

“Case.” Sherlock muttered.

“We have to go interview some people.” John elaborated.

“I’ll leave you to it then.” Mrs Hudson clapped her hands together and left the room.

 

* * *

 

Maeve yawned, rosy lips parting in a long tired exhaled. Sherlock brushed his hand over her head, fingers catching slightly in the short curly strands, he pulled gently at the knots untangling them with his fingers as he caressed the soft hair upon her delicate head. She was so close to sleep as he walked in a figure of eight behind the sofa as Lestrade and John began questioning the victim’s boyfriend, Howard Lewis.

The pair had been dating for seven months and were apparently becoming quite serious, they were even considering moving in together when they reached ten months. He had already been informed of her death after the body had been discovered.

“I am very sorry for your loss.” John told him.

“Thank you.” Howard replied with a small nod of his head.

Sherlock’s eyes flicked over the various photographs in the flat, there were a few on the sideboard with the victim, Amanda Fowler. She looked happy. The boyfriend looked genuinely upset but he could be acting, there were signs that could suggest both, Sherlock thought to himself as he turned back to face him.

Manicure. Neat and tidy. Hair styled precisely, clothes impeccable, no creases, no stains or smudges. The flat was in pristine condition, clean and neat, everything in a specific place. OCD. Marks from underneath the sofa, moves fractionally but not noticeable to the untrained eye. Made tea, ready to host. No signs of crying. Liar.

“Is there somewhere I can change her?” Sherlock asked gesturing to the baby cradled in his arms as he interrupted the regulation questions that John and Greg were filtering through. Three pairs of eyes flicked up to him, Howards of shock and the others of mild curiosity. John shot him ‘I know what you’re up to look’ which Sherlock ignored.

“The bedrooms through there.” Howards gestured down the hallway.

Sherlock nodded and set off, picking the baby bag up off of the floor and going off in the direction of the hallway. He closed the door behind him and went about searching the room discreetly, not wanting to make too much noise or wake Maeve.

There was nothing of interest. Sherlock sighed and went about changing Maeve, it wouldn’t be a hardship to change her now and he needed to keep up pretences. When he was done and satisfied he put her back in the sling and resigned himself to failure.

But stopped in his tracks. The bed was raised slightly on one corner. He held Maeve and the sling closely with one arm and used the other to feel under the mattress, fingers brushing against a book. He pulled it out and put it in the changing bag before leaving the room, closing it behind him.

 

* * *

 

“Thank you for your time.” John said politely as they left.

“Just find whoever did this.” Howards told them, closing the door and leaving the trio in the hallway.

They remained silent until they were outside, stood on the pavement in a small huddle close to Lestrade’s silver BMW with Sherlock looming over the pair of them with one hand on the sling supporting Maeve’s small body and the other on her head. Long fingers caressing her sensitive scalp and the feathery hair that grew there.

“He seems genuinely upset.” Greg spoke up.

“Home?” Sherlock asked.

John seemed taken back by the suggestion but nodded simply.

 

* * *

 

 

“What did you find?” John asked the moment Sherlock had unhooked Maeve from his person and placed her in the Moses basket that he had placed on the coffee table. The infant was fast asleep, not waking when she was moved. Sherlock stilled for a second and continued fussing over his daughter, stripping her of the jumper she was wearing and placing a thin blanket over the top of her body.

“What makes you think that I found something?” Sherlock asked, curious. He stood up and turned to John, eyebrow raised.

“Don’t give me that crap.” John sighed, plopping down on the sofa but lent forward far enough to still keep an eye on Maeve as not to wake her up with this conversation, though she was probably due to wake up soon for a feed. She’d been asleep for well over an hour.

Sherlock plucked the book he had found the victims boyfriends house and threw it at John, the doctor caught it in one hand. He regarded the item. “A journal?”

“Does Howard seem like the kind of man to keep a journal?” Sherlock asked, testing his partner.

“No.” John answered, eyes flicking up to meet Sherlock’s stormy ones. “Is this the victims?”

“It was tucked under the mattress on the side that she slept.”

“And you think this might tell us something?”

“I know this is going to tell us who the killer is.” Sherlock prattled on confidently.

“How?” John managed, still surprised by the consulting detective. “How on earth could you know that?”

“She knows her killer John.” Sherlock answered simply, eyes flicking to the sleeping Maeve before resting on John again. “There’s no way that a stranger could find a way into her house and singlehandedly nail her to the wall. She knew her killer or at least one of them, we’re looking for a duo.”

John opened his mouth to speak but was interrupted by Maeve whining loudly, both pairs of eyes flicked to the baby in the Moses Basket as she began to wake up, stretching her limbs and rubbing at her eyes with tiny fists. She blinked herself awake and looked up at the ceiling, rosy lips quivering slightly. Sherlock lent over so that he was in her line of sight and her lips stopped, she gurgled impatiently and whined again. Sherlock rolled his eyes and scooped her up. He pulled her into their favourite position, her face pressed against his neck and hands supporting her small body against his chest.

“Impatient.” Sherlock muttered to nobody in particular.

Maeve only gurgled irritably. John was up on his feet a second later and in the kitchen, warming a bottle for the very hungry baby. Sherlock watched him go, eyes flicking from the blonde to his daughter. Her hands were in fists bashing against his chest in annoyance as she continued to wake up.

“Someone’s grumpy.” John observed as he re-entered the room, wiping the bottle of milk free of any water droplets before offering it to the consulting detective.

Sherlock’s chest heaved with an impatient sigh. He shifted Maeve ignoring her grumbling as he cradled her in one long arm and took the offered bottle, immediately offering it to Maeve. She suckled from it immediately. John hooked the muslin over the consulting detective’s shoulder, spending a small moment watching her drink enthusiastically before looking up at Sherlock. His eyes were fixed to his daughter, watching her as though she was the most interesting thing that he had ever seen.

“She beautiful, isn’t she?” John asked rhetorically.

Sherlock snorted and gave John his ‘are you an idiot’ look, he scoffed. “I’m pretty sure she’s the most beautiful baby I’ve ever seen.”

“You’re biased.” John chuckled.

“That doesn’t change the fact that she is obviously very beautiful. It’s good genetics.”

“She could grow up to look like Mycroft.” John teased, barely managing to keep a straight face.

Sherlock looked horrified by the suggestion. “John!”

The army doctor chuckled and apologised, not very convincingly. “Sorry.”

The bottle popped out of Maeve’s mouth leaving a trail of milk from her mouth, down her chin and neck. He offered her the teat again which she accepted, looking back up to glare at John. “I made her, she will not turn out like Mycroft.”

“She might turn out like you.” John raised an eyebrow.

“You say that like it’s a bad thing.” He scoffed.

“Isn’t it?” John asked looking up at the consulting detective with a mischievous grin. “I’m not sure the world is quite ready for a miniature Sherlock.”

Sherlock frowned. “She’s not a miniature Sherlock, she’s a Maeve.”

“Semantics Sherlock.” The blonde sighed. Sherlock smiled down at his daughter fondly, eyes flicking to meet John’s for a second before settling back on Maeve. “Do you want me to take her?”

“She’s fussy.” Sherlock announced as he allowed John to take her from him, with a small annoyed grumble from Maeve as she settled in John’s shorter secure arms and went back to her bottle with energy. John rolled his eyes at the consulting detective as he picked up the journal and began reading, eyes skimming over the scribbled handwriting with interest. 

 

* * *

 

 

“John?” Sherlock asked, closing the journal and placing it on the desk beside him.

“Hmm.” The blonde managed in reply craning his head up to look at Sherlock. He was lain on his back across Maeve’s tummy time mat with her sprawled on his chest entirely too interested in the buttons and pockets of his shirt. She lifted her head at the sound of Sherlock’s voice, eyes searching for him. He took pity on her and stepped over the coffee table in one smooth step, towering over the pair as he stood above the blonde’s legs.  

John looked up at the consulting detective, blue grey eyes meeting Sherlock’s bright green as they watched the blonde and the tiny infant fondly. He knelt down, crouching over John’s legs and stroking a hand over his daughters back. She jerked at the touch and attempted to crane her neck round to look at the person responsible to little success.

“She’s getting stronger.” John told him, lifting his head off the floor slightly to watch as she struggled to look over her shoulder, neck and back not yet strong enough to support her head. Maeve dropped her head down to John’s chest in defeat and whined in annoyance.

Sherlock chuckled and ran his large hand down his daughter’s small back again. “She certainly prefers to spend tummy time in this position.”

“Did you find anything in the journal?” John asked.

Sherlock smiled to himself and moved to crouch on all fours, placing his hands on either side of John’s head. He held himself on hands and knees above the doctor and his daughter, the space between his stomach and her back big enough to make sure that she would not be crushed between them. He looked down at John for a moment, eyes flicking to Maeve as she recognised him hovering above them before he placed a single kiss on John’s lips. He moved back up, allowing Maeve more wiggle room and smiled at John. “She had a twin sister.”


	19. Twenty-Three Days Old

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John wakes up alone, Sherlock talks to the victims parents and has to organize childcare for Maeve.

It had started with a text.

John had woken up alone, the bed beside him was cold and he had a sneaky suspicion that the consulting detective hadn’t come to bed last night. Maeve was gone. Sherlock had her then. He sighed, heaved himself out of bed and went to the bathroom before checking. The flat was empty. He even checked the downstairs hallway where they kept Maeve’s pram, it was gone.

Sherlock must have gone out then. It was a bit early though. There was no text, no note. He rolled his eyes and went about his daily routine, he didn’t have to be at the clinic till this afternoon which affording him some luxuries, especially since both Sherlock and Maeve had disappeared.

He showered, ate breakfast and dressed, still no word from Sherlock.

Then he got the text.

_42 Old Oak Rd_

“The game is on.” John muttered sarcastically to himself as he stood up.

 

* * *

 

“Where the bloody hell did you disappeared to?” John asked when he got out of the cab.

Sherlock was stood outside a house lent against the front wall with one long leg crossed elegantly over the other, the pram in front of him which he moved backwards and forwards in small movements while holding the cuddly bee toy his brother had purchased over the pram for Maeve’s entertainment. He looked up at John and smirked.

“Maeve was restless.” He gave in explanation.

John raised an eyebrow. “So restless that you had to leave the house before seven?”

Sherlock gave him a ‘stop being an idiot’ look and answered simply, the voice of the devoted father. “She woke at five and refused to settle back down no matter what I did, I thought it better to get out of the house and enjoy the morning air.”

“You’re working the case aren’t you?” John asked. He already knew the answer but that didn’t stop him.

“As observant as ever.” Sherlock smirked.

John blinked and looked up at the house that they were standing in front of. “Whose house is this?”

“Our victim’s parents.” Sherlock answered, still holding the toy up for Maeve to enjoy. She was lulling despite the stimulation that Sherlock was providing, eyes struggling to stay open as she reached up drowsily for the bee.

“And you need me because?”

“I need you to make sure Maeve falls asleep while I talk to them.”

“I’m your babysitter.” John groaned as Sherlock stood up and handed John the toy, he took Sherlock’s place lent against the wall, foot resting on the pram as he looked in on Maeve.

She was desperately fighting off the urge to sleep, skin pale and black hair covered by a cute purple hat with white polka dots and small ears at the top. It matched the trousers she was wearing over a baby grow with a cartoon doe drawn on it, the doe wore a purple bow the exact colour of the trousers and hat. She wore a small coat over the top almost the exact match of Sherlock’s in a miniature version and a blue knitted scarf similar to one that Sherlock had worn in the past.

“Don’t be silly John.” Sherlock told him. He placed a kiss on the doctor’s lips and walked down the path towards the house, he called back. “You are much more than that.”

 

* * *

 

“And you’re with the police?” Amanda Fowler’s father asked as he took a seat beside his wife. Sherlock was sat on the sofa opposite them, one leg crossed over the other and his hand resting on his knee as his eyes flicked over the room, returning to the couple every so often.

“Yes.” Sherlock answered. “I consult with the police on cases.”

Carol Fowler nodded and her husband, David hooked his arm around her shoulders comfortingly. "The police said that her body was…displayed.”

Sherlock managed a small nod of confirmation. “There was an aspect of arrangement at the scene.”

“Do you know who did this?” David asked, voice stern.

“I am working on a possible lead.” Sherlock admitted, he sipped at the tea that they had provided for him.

“Do you have children Mr Holmes?” Carol asked. Her eyes were pleading and voice threatening to break.

Sherlock opened his mouth to speak but closed it, he nodded and managed. “One.”

Carol smiled. “How old?”

“Twenty-three days.” Sherlock answered. “A girl, Maeve.”

“That’s a beautiful name.” Carol beamed like it was the best news she’d had in days, it probably was after finding out that her daughter had been murdered. David managed a small faked smile, hand tightening slightly on his wife’s shoulder as she conversed with the consulting detective. “Where is she?”

Sherlock hesitated. “She’s outside with my companion.”

Carol looked as though she had been slapped, she shot to her feet. “You could have brought her in, it’s no trouble.”

 “I thought it best not to involve her in my work.” Sherlock frowned and sighed, confessing. “She has been restless and John, my companion, is attempting to get her to sleep.”

“She won’t sleep?” Carol asked, retaking her seat and genuinely interested in the conversation. She was deflecting of course, not wanting to talk about her daughter at this present time.

“At five o’clock this morning she woke up and refused to go back to sleep.”

“Is she usually good?” David asked.

Sherlock nodded. “She hates to go to sleep but hates having to wake up.”

“Amanda always slept through.” Carol said solemnly.

“And her sister?” Sherlock asked raising an eyebrow.

Carol and David exchanged a glance. David answered. “Louise was always…harder to deal with, she required a lot more attention.”

Sherlock nodded. There were few pictures in the lounge, only one of the two sisters as children, almost identical though he doubted they would be now, social factors would have changed that. One of his homeless network had sent him a picture of her, she bore little resemblance to her sister now.

“Were they close?” The consulting detective asked.

“They were never that close.”

“Have you seen Louise since?”

Carol nodded. “She was here when the police came, she had a hard time with the news and left. We haven’t seen her since.”

“But she has been in contact.” It was a statement not a question.

“To tell us that she’s alright.”

“Have you heard from Howard?”

“He called after he found out, he was devastated. He was going thinking about asking her to move in with him, it was quick but they just worked, the poor boy, he doesn’t have any other family.” Carol told Sherlock, eyes filled with sadness.

“Are these questions important?” David asked, voice gruff.

“Any information is important.” Sherlock answered honestly as he stood up, buttoning his coat. “I understand that this is a difficult time for you, I would appreciate anything you can tell me. You have my number.”

“Thank you Mr Holmes.”

 

* * *

 

Maeve was still awake, blue eyes forced open and getting fussier by the second. John lent over the pram handle so that she had a good view of him and spoke to her softly. “Your Daddy is working a case, he solves crime. He pretends that it’s because of the ‘game’ but he likes to help people, he’d never admit it but that feeling, the one of solving a case, it’s the best.”

“I would appreciate if you stopped with the fabrications” Sherlock scolded as he approached. John turned to face him, striding down the pathway with his coat billowing behind him. He placed one hand on the wall and hopped over it effortlessly, leaning against it beside John. “Falsehoods are not something that I wish my daughter to learn.”

John bumped his shoulder playfully. “You know it’s true. You like helping people.”

“The case John.” Sherlock said louder than necessary. “The case is all that is important, the work.”

John snorted. “You can’t lie to me Sherlock Holmes.”

Sherlock raised his eyebrow and practically purred. “Whatever you say Doctor Watson.”

John surged forward to kiss the detective effectively shutting him up. He’d have to remember that. Sherlock responded to the kiss immediately, reaching forward and grasping John’s chin as he took control of the kiss. He teased at the seams of the doctor’s lips with his tongue and John opened his mouth, allowing him access.

Maeve wailed.

Sherlock jerked away from the kiss, managing a shocked look of apology to John before he focused on Maeve. Her rosy lips was quivering and eyes filling with tears. John managed a choked laugh, Sherlock ignored it and scooped Maeve up out of the pram and into his arms. He managed to position her in her favourite spot against his neck with her body pressed against his, using his coat to shield her from the cold air and press her closer to his body.

“She’s tired.” John observed.

“I thought the fresh air would help.” Sherlock responded sounding desperate.

“She’s just stubborn Sherlock.” John smiled, running his hand over Sherlock’s shoulder and down his back. “Like you.”

Sherlock managed a small chuckle of amusement, his eyes downcast as he rocked Maeve comfortingly. “I don’t sleep out of necessity.”

“And she won’t sleep because there’s so much new stuff for her to explore.” John told him. “She loves you and you love her, you’re not failing at this.”

Sherlock nodded. The thought had occurred to him. He couldn’t get his daughter to sleep after almost two and a half hours of being awake, of walking around in the morning air and just talking. “I need to focus on this case.”

“Maeve helps you focus.” John pointed out.

“Yes but I need to investigate the victim’s sister and I cannot do that with Maeve.” He sighed, it was hard to admit to himself.

 

* * *

 

A knock on the door disturbed Mycroft, he didn’t bother looking up from the papers he was reading and called. “Come in.”

The door creaked open to reveal Anthea, she nodded in silent greeting and stepped aside to reveal Sherlock with a purple pram that he assumed contained his niece. He looked up to watch them enter, not who he was expecting to see today. He sighed. “Sherlock, I’m busy.”

“I need your help.” Sherlock said quickly.

Mycroft hated how much Sherlock sounded like a child, it reminded him of all the times he’d come back from university and was guilt tricked into funding or aiding Sherlock in his ridiculous experiments.

“I’m working.” The auburn hair man told him, leaning back in his chair and crossing one leg over the other.

Anthea left closing the door behind her as Sherlock moved to stand in front of his brother’s desk, pushing the pram so it was in line with his desk. She was finally sleeping soundly, a blanket over her legs and the bee toy to her side, one hand resting beside her face and curled into a small fist.

“I’m working a case.” Sherlock gave in explanation.

“And you can’t take her with you?” Mycroft raised an eyebrow. He knew that his brother had been working cases with her in tow. He craned his neck slightly to look at his niece sleeping in her pram on the other side of his desk. She was breathing evenly, breath coming out in high-pitched snores that could only be classified as adorable.

“The murder of a woman, nailed to the wall and throat cut.”

“Hardly PG.” Mycroft agreed looking back up at his brother.

Sherlock put his hands on his hips. “It was a team, her sister and the boyfriend are involved somehow. I need more data on the sister, my homeless network are following her. I need to observe her in person.”

Mycroft sighed. “Where’s John?”

“Working.”

“Mrs Hudson?”

Sherlock furrowed his brow. “Maeve is rather fussy today, she woke at five and has only just got back to sleep. Though Mrs Hudson is competent there is no need to put that on her, she is being extremely difficult today and needs to be around somebody that she recognises.”

“I would love to” Mycroft admitted solemnly. “But I have some rather pressing matters to deal with.”

“Mycroft.” Sherlock voiced in annoyance.

“I’m sorry Sherlock but you’ll have to make other arrangements.”

 

* * *

 

Sherlock knocked on the door instead of just walking in, he wanted to make a good impression. A moment later the door swung open, his Mother looked shocked at the sight of him and the pram on the doorstep. She was dressed in a simple but elegant light blue day dress with a matching blazer. There was a flower pin on her collar and her hair was pulled back in a neat arrangement.

“Sherlock.” She breathed, completely taken back by his sudden appearance.

“Are you busy?” He asked. His eyes scanned over her before settling back on her eyes.

“I-I have lunch plans.” She admitted.

Obvious. She was having lunch with the usual suspects, the same women from his childhood, they gossiped and arranged various fund raising activities, and they were a committee. Socialites. Or as his father would say, a gaggle of hens led by his mother.

“I’m working a case.” He told her, looking at the ground as if ashamed. “John is working and Mycroft busy, I can’t ask Mrs Hudson and it isn’t an option that I take her with me.”

Violet looked confused for a moment then realisation dawned on her, her eyes twinkled. “You want me to take care of her?”

“If it isn’t an inconvenience.” Sherlock muttered in distaste, hating that he had to ask his parents for something and the manners he was imploring.

“No, it’s not an inconvenience. I’d be happy to watch her.” Violet beamed.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and explained as concisely as possible. “Everything you need is in the bag. She’s fussy today, she woke up at five and refused to go back to sleep. She’s only been down an hour but will be hungry soon, don’t be surprised if she doesn’t want to wake up to eat but she’s due a feed in about half an hour. If she’s fussing too much then offer her your hand or let her explore you, she likes that. She’ll need to have tummy time soon. There are spare clothes in the bag, she likes the bee toy and hold her close, and she likes to feel secure. I’m not sure when I’ll be back, Mycroft is going to pick her up and bring her home later.”

Violet nodded. Sherlock mirrored with a single nod, bent down to look at his sleeping daughter and press a single kiss to her forehead, he lingered for a brief moment inhaling her scent before turning and walking down the steps. Violet looked down at the sleeping baby and released a happy breath, she manoeuvred the pram inside and wheeled it towards the drawing room where the table was already set for afternoon tea.

Siger looked up as he placed the last plate on the table, his brow furrowing in confusion. Violet smiled as she explained. “Sherlock’s working a case and asked that we look after her.”

“He brought her here voluntarily?” Siger asked surprised as he crossed the room to get a good look at his granddaughter as she slept.

“Mycroft and John are both working.” Violet answered, not letting that spoil her mood.

Siger opened his mouth to speak but was interrupted by the doorbell ringing. “I’ll watch her, you enjoy your lunch.”

Violet nodded, stealing one last glance at her granddaughter before going to open the door. Siger pushed the buggy into the lounge and settled her beside the sofa, he sat down and watched her as she slept. There was laughter in the hallway, Siger picked up his book. This was going to be a long lunch time.

 

* * *

 

Twenty minutes later Maeve jolted in her sleep and hit herself in the eye with her closed fist, jerking awake shocked. She screamed. Siger dropped his book, it hit the ground with a soft thump and lay forgotten as leaned forward in his seat. He scooped her up in his arms and got to his feet, rocking her side to side as she cried. The sound was heart-breaking, he wondered how Sherlock managed with this but pushed the thought aside as he cradled her tightly.

“It’s ok.” He attempted to sooth her.

She carried on crying. He could never settle Sherlock down at times like these, his daughter he imagined would be equally as challenging. Violet was always good in these moments.

God, this was not going to be easy.

 

* * *

 

Violet sipped at her tea. The ladies were seated for their monthly fund raising committee meeting round the oval table in the drawing room. It was set with a delicate white table cloth and the crockery with sky blue around the rim and delicate red roses.

“I hear Mycroft is doing quite well.” Beatrice struck up conversationally, her smile faked. She was the most conceited of the bunch, the most absorbed with reputation and scandal, the gossip of the group.

“He’s working his way through the ranks.” Violet admitted.

“I saw him with a young woman the other day, very pretty.” Beatrice continued.

“Anthea.” Violet supplied.

Cecily frowned. “I thought that Mycroft was in a committed relationship.”

Cecily was the most popular of the bunch with the most contacts and connections. Violet nodded. “Gregory is a detective inspector with the yard.”

“Quite the silver fox.” Arabella told them with a raised eyebrow. She and Violet had been best friends since middle school, she’d met Greg at a dinner a few months back. 

 “A charming young man.” Violet confirmed. “He brings out the best in our Mycroft.”

“And what of Sherlock?” Beatrice asked. She was just looking for trouble now, she knew about the difficult relationships and that the younger Holmes had had some troubles. She was being particularly bitchy today.

Violet stared at her for a moment, feigning a friendly expression as she nodded. “He’s doing well.”

“He’s a detective of sorts now, isn’t he?” Beatrice asked. “I’ve seen his name in the papers.”

“Consulting detective.” Violet corrected.

“He invented the job.” Arabella chipped in fondly.

They were interrupted by a loud high pitched cry. The girls jolted shocked and Violet blinked a moment before rising to her feet. “Excuse me.”

“Is that a baby?” Cecily asked.

Violet ignored the question and opened the drawing room door. Siger came down the hallway, Maeve cradled in his arms and screaming at the top of her lungs. Her coat and scarf had been removed but the blanket was still draped over the bottom half of her body. “Is she ok?” Violet asked concerned.

“She just hit herself.” Siger explained. “I think she scared herself.”

Violet could hear the murmured whispers from the other room but ignored them in favour of focusing on her granddaughter, Siger held her out and she took her from him. She positioned her like Sherlock had instructed her. With her small head pressed against her collar bone, towards her neck and body stretched against hers, supported by both of her hands as she rocked her gently and hushed her soothingly. “Can you make a bottle?”

Siger nodded. “Two minutes.”

Violet watched him walk away and sighed to herself as she continued to bounce the baby up and down slightly. She forced back the slight feeling of dread creeping up on her and stepped back into the drawing room. “Sorry.” She told them politely.

All eyes were on her and the very upset baby.

“Who’s this young lady then?” Arabella asked craning her neck slightly as Violet retook her seat, continuing with her movements to sooth the infant.

Violet looked down at the baby on her shoulder with affection. “This is Sherlock’s little girl.”

“Sherlock’s daughter?” Beatrice asked, shocked.

“Isn’t she gorgeous?” Arabella asked, leaning forward in her seat to get a good look at Maeve as she quietened down, the tears drying on her cheeks and voice hoarse from crying.

“I didn’t know that Sherlock had a daughter.” Cecily started conversationally, still in disbelief. “Though she is very young.”

“Twenty-three days.” Violet told them, beaming as the crying faded into small sniffles. “It all happened rather suddenly.”

“God, she is the image of Sherlock.” Arabella exclaimed. She was trying to help the situation, keep away the questions but Violet knew that they needed answered, and they deserved them.

“Maeve is biologically Sherlock’s, the mother was a one night stand.” Violet explained, eyes flicking to the baby against her chest. Her small hands were open now and beginning to wander over her blazer. “She abandoned the poor thing when she was two days old, left her on Sherlock’s doorstep. He took her in.”

“The poor thing.” Cecily managed.

“He’s adjusted very well.” Violet told them.

“Hates to leave her side.” Siger added as he strode into the room holding a bottle and a muslin.

“Is he working a case?” Arabella asked.

Violet nodded and took both items from Siger. He continued. “He’d take her in a heartbeat if he could.”

“Who would have thought it?” Beatrice asked. “Sherlock the devoted father.”

Violet managed a small smile. Siger didn’t instead he focused on his granddaughter.

 

* * *

 

 Mycroft let himself into his parents’ house early, he’d managed to get away earlier than expected and thought he should collect Maeve. Though Sherlock trusted his parents with her, he’d want her back as soon as possible and a trip through London at night with a baby was not wise. He would take her back to the flat.

He left his umbrella by the door and walked through the house. There were voices from the drawing room, mother and her friends then. He stopped in the kitchen to wash his hands before he entered. His mother was sat with at the table with Beatrice, Cecily and Arabella while his father was on the floor with Maeve who was on a blanket with a few soft toys surrounding her.

“Mycroft.” Violet greeted fondly.

“Mother.” He returned politely, eyes flicking over the guests. “Ladies.”

Arabella smiled at him. “So you’re an uncle now Mycroft?”

“So it would seem.” He responded as he crouched down beside the blanket and ran a hand over Maeve’s delicate head. She looked up, blue eyes flicking to him and started kicking her legs in excitement.

“Oh” Cecily fawned. “She’s happy to see you.”

“It is mutual.” Mycroft informed them as he scooped her up, she went into his arms eagerly, and mouth open displaying her gums as she all but dived into his neck. He held her with one hand on her back and offered her his other hand. She took it and shoved the offered digits into her mouth, she chewed on them excitedly.

“She’s been fed and managed another hour or so of sleep.” Siger told him as he got to his feet. “That’s the happiest I’ve seen her all day.”

“She’s been difficult today.” Mycroft informed them. “She woke up at five and refused to be put back down, she only just fell asleep before he came to me at ten.”

Maeve released his hand and focused instead on his blazer. She grasped the fabric in her small fingers and lowered her face to the collar of his shirt. Mycroft didn’t react, this was her usual behaviour after all. It reminded him of Sherlock as a baby, always wanting to touch and put things in his mouth.

“She’ll sleep well tonight.” Arabella said simply.

Mycroft nodded and articulated to his parents. “I’m going to take her to see Gregory, we’re going to take her back to the flat and watch her until John comes home.”

“Are you sure he won’t mind?” Violet asked. It’s not that she doubted John, she was just worried.

“He’ll be glad to Mummy.” Maeve yawned loudly against his chest, eyes drifting closed and Mycroft lowered his voice. “You know he adores her.”

Violet smiled. She’d hadn’t imagined a day when both her sons would be in happy relationships and a grandchild, it was rather perfect.

“Goodbye Mummy.” Mycroft kissed his mother’s cheek angling his body so that Maeve wouldn’t be crushed between them. He drew back. “Father, ladies.”

  

* * *

 

 

There was a tap on the door.

“Come in.” Greg instructed, running a hand through his silver hair.

Donovan had been collecting statements all afternoon and Anderson running forensics, he’d had a call from Sherlock about a possible lead but there had been nothing else, no time or place. He’d tried calling back but the consulting detective had been screening his calls all day, he’d tried John but he was at the clinic. 

Donovan opened the door.

“Done?” He asked her, closing the file that he’d finished.

“Yes.” She nodded with a small smile of relief.

“Was there something else?” He asked slightly confused by her appearance as he ran his and from the back of his head to his shoulders, working on the knots forming there.

“Mycroft has just arrived.” She answered.

Greg nodded and stood up, he picked up the jacket from the coat rack he had in the corner of the office. He hooked the coat over his arm and followed Sally into the communal offices of New Scotland Yard. Mycroft was stood with Anthea. He was waiting, stood with his back impossibly straight and a blanket draped over his shoulder with tiny soft white shoes hanging out. He smirked at the sight of Mycroft with Maeve sleeping on his shoulder talking to Anthea in hushed tones as she typed on her blackberry.

“Gregory.” The auburn hair man greeted as he looked up from Anthea to his partner.

“I didn’t expect to see you.” Greg admitted, glancing over the other cops as they went back to their duties.

“I managed to finish earlier than expected.” Mycroft told him, lips tugging into a small smile. “Sherlock is following a lead and Maeve has been with my parents. We need to take her home.”

“Right.” Greg pulled on his coat and stepped closer to Mycroft. He lent in and pulled the blanket back a sliver to peer in at Maeve, her pale face was pressed against his suit jacket leaving a small path of drool from her parted lips, her dark hair static from the blanket she was under. Greg pulled back, expression affectionate as his gaze flicked up to Mycroft. “She been asleep long?”

“Not long enough.” Mycroft admitted. “She had Sherlock up this morning and has been rather difficult to manage today.”

“Dinner?” Greg asked raising an eyebrow.

“Starved.”

 

 

* * *

 

Mycroft and Greg were sat together on the sofa when John arrived home. The elder Holmes on one side with his back incredibly straight and Greg beside him, close together. Maeve was sleeping in her Moses basket that was on the coffee table, snoring gently as they watched the television on mute.

“Mycroft, Greg.” John greeted.

Greg nodded in his direction and stretched out slightly, Mycroft managed a small smile that was faked but well meant. “Good evening.”

“Is Sherlock back?” John asked craning his neck to look inside the Moses basket at the sleeping baby, she was wearing a simple pale yellow sleepsuit with a teddy bear on it. Her mouth parted and breathing even.

“No.” Greg answered getting to his feet. Mycroft followed suit, standing up and brushing invisible dust from his jacket.

“Well it looks like it’s just me and the little lady.” John sighed to himself and plopped into his chair.

 

* * *

 

Sherlock strode into the flat at exactly quarter past eleven. The flat was silent, shrouded in darkness as he paused in the lounge to drape his coat and scarf over the back of one of the desk chairs before making his way towards the only light in the flat. It was the coloured glow of Maeve’s nightlight that sat on his side of the room, on his bedside table beside her Moses basket. He stepped into the room, not making a sound as he did so.

John was fast asleep facing the Moses basket but somehow still on his side of the bed. Maeve was snoring gently from the Moses basket, a bottle was left on the drawers half empty, so she’d been fed recently. He shed his clothes, not bothering to put on any pyjamas and slipped into bed wearing only a pair of black boxers. John stirred slightly but didn’t wake, gluing himself to Sherlock’s side and throwing an arm across his chest. He closed his eyes and drifted off to sleep, he’d need it no doubt Maeve would be hungry soon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all all the lovely comments, I really like hearing from all of you so keep them coming.


	20. Twenty-Four Days Old

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John get some alone time and they go about the day solving the case.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry i haven't been able to update this sooner, I went on holiday to a place without wifi but I wrote down lots of note and know exactly what will be happening with the story for a while now. So happy! And this chapter ended up being harder for me to write than i expected because i started it before my holiday and had to finish it when i came back but i powered through and hopefully the next chapter will make it all worthwhile.

John woke to the birds singing, sunlight flitting through the gap in the curtains and landing directly on his face. He opened his eyes. It was still early. There were the tell-tale snores from Maeve’s Moses basket and she hadn’t woken him during the night so Sherlock had been back at some point. The consulting detective was behind him, body hot against his back and arms encircling his chest.

“Shut up.” Sherlock told him, voice groggy from sleep and breathing against his ear. His breath was hot and John shivered involuntary.

“I didn’t say anything.” John muttered turning his head slightly to look at Sherlock. The consulting detective had his eyes closed, dark lashes delicate against his pale skin and pink lips pulling into an annoyed smirk.

“You’re thinking…it’s annoying.” He clarified.

“When did you get back?” John asked settling back into his previous position his side, the little spoon to Sherlock’s big spoon.

“Quarter past eleven.” Sherlock huffed.

“Maeve’s…” He started.

Sherlock finished. “Asleep, I fed her twenty minutes ago.”

John hummed contently and Sherlock’s arms around his chest tightened pulling him impossibly closer. “How long will she sleep for?”

Sherlock sighed. “Half an hour.”

“You’re guessing.” John observed, amused and wiggling slightly in the detectives grasp.

“It’s not an exact science.”

John chuckled. He was sure not to be too loud and wake the sleeping baby, she would not be amused if she was woken from her slumber. He pressed back against the consulting detective. “Can’t you deduce it?”

Sherlock opened his eyes and craned his neck to look at John, looking down at the blonde. “She will sleep for half an hour.” Sherlock repeated.

“Hmmm” John hummed and turned his body in Sherlock’s grasp so that he was laying on his back and looking up at the detective. “What could we possibly do for half an hour?”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. “I’m sure that I can think of something.”

John lent up and pressed a quick kiss to his lips before dropping his head back down onto the pillow. “You are a genius after all.”

  

* * *

 

 

“Bloody hell!” John muttered, breath coming out in harsh pants as he flopped back onto the mattress beside Sherlock. The duvet covered his lower half, his pyjamas were forgotten on the floor and a flannel scrunched up on the bedside table beside him. His chest was glistening with sweat and hair mussed but not nearly as much as Sherlock’s, his curls were in complete disarray. His pale body shiny in the morning light, lips swollen and a corner of the duvet covering his modesty. His long legs were sprawled out, one hanging off the bed and the other bent and thrown over John’s legs, black boxers hooked over his foot as he caught his breath.

“Quite.” Sherlock managed after a moment sounding far too composed for John’s liking.

“That was…”

“…I know.” Sherlock finished for him twisting his neck to gaze at the blonde.

Maeve yawned loudly. Sherlock turned towards the Moses basket and inhaled deeply before sitting up. He pulled on his boxers and got to his feet. Maeve was waking up, eyes creeping open slowly to adjust to the morning light and brought her small fists up to her face to rub at her eyes.

“Good morning you little terror.” Sherlock greeted his daughter with a fond smile. She removed her fists and blinked up at him, blue eyes clouded from sleep and pupil’s dilating in the increased light as she focused on him hovering above her. She yawned again and started kicking her legs in excitement.

“Mycroft said she had a good time with your parents.” John informed him as he pulled on his pyjama bottoms.

Sherlock scooped her up and cradled her against his bare chest. He frowned. “She’s three and a half weeks old, I doubt she had a good time.”

John sighed and flopped back onto the bed, rubbing at his eyes. “You know what I mean.”

“Do I?” Sherlock challenged.

“Maeve only managed a few hours of sleep with your parents but Mycroft managed to get her down, I had her awake for an hour before we went to bed and she was good as gold.” John rephrased, peeking from behind his hands at the consulting detective. Maeve was holding his hand and exploring it with her own, running her fingers over his much larger digits.

“I have no doubt.” Sherlock said as he watched her explore him. “I need a bath.”

“Do you want me to take her?” John asked, removing his hands from his eyes.

Sherlock shook his head. “She needs to be washed.”

“Need any help?” John asked as Sherlock went into the bathroom with Maeve still cradled in his arms.

“Judging on the last time we shared a bath help would not go amiss.” The consulting detective admitted, voice echoing off of the tiles as he turned on the taps and positioned her bath seat at one end of the bath, leaving the other clear for him.

  

* * *

 

 

The water was lukewarm, enough for a baby to handle but not nearly hot enough for Sherlock to enjoy. The sacrifices of being a parent. He washed himself, with Maeve’s soap and shampoo as anything else would irritate her fresh skin, and was running the soft sponge over her tiny body in small delicate strokes. She looked up at him, blue eyes bright through her dark lashes.

When he was finished he let go of the sponge and picked Maeve up out of her seat, careful with the extra wetness to support her body completely. He positioned her in his favourite way, with her pressed against him, head facing his neck and hands sprawled against his wet chest. He picked up the sponge and ran it down her back.

“You are a good girl for Daddy.” He whispered, placing a soft kiss in her hairline.

He started humming a tune, the vibrations rumbling in his chest and through Maeve. She gurgled and smiled at him, her eyes flicked up to his, he couldn’t contain his smile in response.

“I love you.” He told her softly his lips moving against her forehead. It was the first time he’d uttered those words but they were true. He added. “You little terror.”

There was a tap on the door and Sherlock looked up. The door creaked open to reveal John. “Greg’s here.”

Sherlock nodded and gestured silently towards Maeve. John stepped into the room making sure the door was closed behind him and grabbed the beige dressing gown, he laid it down on the changing table and reached to pick up Maeve. She fussed slightly at the movement but made no sound as the army doctor dried her, putting on a clean nappy and swaddling her in the dressing gown before leaving the room.

 

* * *

 

 

Greg turned to see John approaching with a freshly bathed Maeve, wearing a cute miniature version of one of Sherlock’s dressing gowns and hair damp against her pale skin. He found himself smiling at the baby, a smile which John knew all too well, he too was smiling fondly at the infant.

“He’ll be out in a minute.” The army doctor announced.

Greg reached out and took Maeve from him. She blinked up at him for a moment before her eyes soared off in other directions, flicking over the room while John left to get a bottle. Greg took a seat in John’s chair, keeping Maeve close to his body and picked up a small soft rabbit toy from the table and offered it to her. She explored the soft toy with her hands.

“Are you all clean?” He asked the infant, his voice soft as he waved the toy rabbit in front of her and she held onto one of its arms. “Did you have a bath with your daddy?”

“She won’t answer you Lestrade.” A deep voice told him.

Greg craned his neck to look at Sherlock, the consulting detective was lent against the door frame wearing a beige dressing gown that matched Maeve’s and a towel throw over his shoulder.

“I know that” Greg snapped, keeping his voice light as not to disturb Maeve. “And you talk to her all the time.”

Sherlock smirked and stepped further into the room, leaning over the arm of the chair to gaze at his daughter cradled in the grey haired man’s arms. He clarified “It wasn’t a criticism.”

“No?” Greg asked curiously.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Don’t be obtuse.”

“And new information?”

“He was involved with our victim’s twin sister.” Sherlock informed him.

“What?” John asked with a look of disgust as he re-entered the room with a bottle in his hand and muslin hooked over his arm.

“Louise Fowler.” Sherlock announced as he rose to his feet and crossed the room to the former mirror, now pin board of his notes and photographs. “The twin of Amanda Fowler, our victim, I found her journal at the boyfriends flat. They’ve been involved for some time.”

“God, that’s sick.” John shook his head. Sherlock merely raised an eyebrow as he continued to stare at the information in front of him and the blonde prepared himself to feed the baby, placing the muslin over his shoulder and taking the lid off of the bottle. He gestured to Greg and the Detective inspector lifted Maeve up so the blonde could hold her in one arm and feed her with the other.

John offered her the bottle’s teat and she accepted it between her rosy lips quickly, hungrily gulping the milk down. Sherlock glanced over his shoulder and rolled his eyes. “She’ll make herself sick.”

“What am I supposed to do about that?” John asked, looking expectantly at the consulting detective.

Sherlock shrugged and turned his body to face the two men and baby completely. “We hope that she learns not to do so in the future.”

“Louise is a suspect then?” Greg asked swiftly changing the subject.

“Most definitely.” Sherlock responded, picking up the journal and throwing it to the grey haired man. He caught it effortlessly. “Howard Lewis and Louise Fowler are a team, she’s the alpha in the relationship and has turned him into a murderer.”

“What? You think this is sibling rivalry?” John asked, his attention completely on the baby in his arms.

“Louise Fowler is a narcissist.” Sherlock explained. “She exhibits all Hotchkiss identifiers.”

John raised his gaze for a moment and shot Sherlock a ‘please explain’ look. “And that made her kill her sister?”

“Louise exhibits the classic signs of narcissism as defined by Hotchkiss as Shamelessness, magical thinking, arrogance, and envy, sense of entitlement, exploitation and lack of boundaries.” Sherlock illuminated. “Louise feels debased by Amanda and felt the need to relieve her own low self-esteem by degrading her sister and reflating her ego. She has a feeling of superiority that Amanda challenged with her ‘perfect’ life and the sense of entitlement she feels means this was perceived as an attack on her authority and superiority.”

“So, she killed her sister because of some messed up sense of sibling rivalry?” Greg asked.

“Essentially.”

“Do you have any evidence?”

Sherlock looked at the ground like a child who was being asked for homework. “I need some time.”

Greg nodded. “I’ll stop by after work.”

 

* * *

 

“Are you all ready?” Sherlock asked his daughter. He looked down at her on the changing table, she was dressed in a white baby grow with what he assumed was a pink cat wearing a tiara on the front with matching pink trousers and a hat with white polka dots. Her white Gucci coat buttoned up over the top and warm booties covering her tiny feet. “You and I are going to go for a walk.”

Maeve looked up at him, blue eyes wide and mouth parted as if she was actually interested in what he had to say. Sherlock slipped on his coat and wrapped his scarf around his neck careful to keep his eyes on his daughter the entire time, though she was too young to roll over it was better to be vigilant. He scooped her up and carried her downstairs, letting her hold his finger tightly in her tiny fists.

The pram was already set up in the hallway ready for him. He placed her gently inside and tucked her underneath the blanket, hand lingering for a moment before pulling back. “Come on you little terror, the game is on.”

 

* * *

 

“Molly” Sherlock greeted.

The pathologist turned around to face him surprised by his sudden arrival though she had been expecting him since the body came in on Sunday. The purple pram separated them, his hands firmly on the handle and soft snores emulating from inside. The hood was pulled over the top of the pram blocking her view of the sleeping baby but she could clearly see the blankets covering the bottom half of the pram but not her legs, she was still tiny.

“You’re here about the body.” Molly guessed.

Sherlock gave a curt nod. “I’m interested in any particulates or samples you may have found on the body.”

Molly nodded and started down the hallway, Sherlock followed pushing the pram at a pace that matched the pathologists pace and not his own, his own gait was bigger than hers. “How has everything….how have things been?” Molly asked, rethinking her question halfway-through.

“Good.” Sherlock answered knowing that was the answer expected, sometimes it was easier to follow social conventions.

Molly glanced over her shoulder curiously. “And Maeve?”

“Fine.” Sherlock reaffirmed. “We’ve been working a case.”

“Amanda Fowler?”

“Yep” Sherlock replied, popping the ‘p’ loudly. The sound echoed off of the squeaky clean white hospital walls as they continued towards the lab.

 

* * *

 

Sherlock was hunched over a microscope while Molly flicked through the case file that Sherlock had looked at then throw carelessly aside, she was careful not to wake the baby sleeping in the pram beside him.

The door opened and Mike Stamford stepped in, eyes widening at the sight of the pair working in the lab and the purple pram beside the unapproachable man. “Bloody Hell!” He exclaimed a little too loud.

Molly looked up and Sherlock’s attention snapped from the microscope to the sleeping baby inside of the pram, she stirred and released a high pitched whine. He bit his lip hoping that she would just drift back into sleep. Maeve blinked herself awake, eyes watering and a single tear running down her cheek. He sighed, shooting a glare in the direction of the doctor that had just entered the room then back to his daughter.

“Shhh there’s no need for that.” Sherlock announced softly, reaching into the pram and picking up his daughter. He pulled her close to his body with the blanket covering her back and shielding her from the others in the room, she yawned against his shoulder as he settled her with one of his long arms supporting her whole body and his hand resting on her hat covered head.

Sherlock looked back up at Mike Stamford. The portly man’s eyes wide in shock and jaw slack at the sight before him. “Is that yours?”

“The baby?” Sherlock asked sarcastically as he got to his feet and jiggled his body to sooth the infant on his shoulder. “According to DNA testing and her incredible good looks.”

“Bloody hell Sherlock give a man a break, I hardly expected to walk in and find you with a baby.” Mike breathed eye glued to the consulting detective.

“I assumed John would have informed you.” Sherlock defended.

“Is this why he hasn’t been able to come to the pub?” Mike asked, the cogs turning in his head at a painfully slow rate.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “I have neither the knowledge nor the care.”

“John’s been good as gold.” Molly spoke up. Sherlock set her a ‘how would you know’ look, she blushed and pulled her mobile from the lab coat pocket. “We text.”

“John has been aiding me.” Sherlock informed the other man.

“With raising a child?” Mike asked, still dumfounded.

“It is not something that I have forced upon him.” The consulting detective snapped, wary of his daughter on the verge of sleep against his shoulder.

“No, that’s not what I meant. John’s a good guy, he’d help any way he could and he’s always wanted children.”

Sherlock nodded. “John has been invaluable to me.”

“Gosh.” Mike managed, he took a breath and asked. “What’s her name then?”

“This is Maeve, my daughter.” Sherlock introduced.

 


	21. Twenty-Four Days Old

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock is home alone and danger comes knocking, not really...well, there is danger but it doesn't knock unless you count the back of his head. The top of his list of concerns is keeping Maeve safe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> On Wednesday I'm going on holiday for ten days which means no updates I'm afraid but I will be taking my laptop and continuing to write. I hope to get another chapter done before I leave but we'll have to wait and see. 
> 
> It has come to my attention that this story may resemble another and though I can understand where they see the similarities but most are coincidences that I have done for a reason and you can asked me about them if you like, I welcome all types of curiosity. The series 'Intentions' by KeelieThompson1 share a trope with this fic. I must admit that this series of fics is a favorite of mine that I find myself often coming back to for an evening read. I believe in credit where credit is due but as pointed out by DaringD there are alot of differences, the stories share only a trope. 'Ideal Father' was not directly inspired or shaped by the work of KeelieThompson1 but i can understand how it may seem that way to others. I want there to be no ill-feelings that leave this fic feeling 'tainted'. 
> 
> I also want to thank DaringD for her thorough comments and caring email, they give me the confidence to continue writing.
> 
>  
> 
> Thank you for all the lovely comments, please keep them coming as they are delightful :)

The flat was silent.

The only sounds were the soft snores from the Moses basket against the wall in his bedroom as he closed the door, leaving his daughter shrouded in the bright stars of her nightlight. The monitor was on and already in the living room and John out, having dinner with Greg after work before returning to hear what Sherlock had discovered.

He’d discovered very little and Lestrade was expecting enough evidence to convict both Louise Fowler and Howard Lewis of murder. The duo (he suspected this was due to Louise) had left no fingerprints or fibres on the body or at the scene. It was rather brilliant, though as John would say ‘a bit not good’ and the good doctor was right, a team capable of getting away with murder was rather…bad.

He heaved a sigh and walked down the hallway towards the living room.

A floorboard creaked that made him pause in his track, stopping mid-step and eyes darting over the darkened flat in search of the source. The doorway connecting the hallway to the kitchen was ajar, the glass doors of the kitchen open and living room seemingly empty. He glanced over his shoulder, Maeve was sleeping and Mrs Hudson out for the night.

He narrowed his eyes and continued warily on his path not wanting to be caught off guard. He stopped once more as he reached the doorway to the hallway and glanced over the kitchen-

Pain blossomed across the back of his skull and he fell forwards, grappling against the counter as he blinked in surprise. He grasped the back of his head with one hand and felt wetness against his fingertips.

Bleeding then.

Hit over the back of the head.

Probable concussion.

He was suddenly aware of how hard it was to blink as his hand slid across the counter sending papers flying, his knees smacked against the wooden floor, hard.

Definite concussion then.

Maeve.

There were no sounds coming from the monitor. The intruder was not aware of her presence then, good, she was safe for now.

He fell forward body thumping against the floor as he blinked slowly, there were footsteps and hushed voices but he couldn’t make them out above the buzzing.

Then everything went black.

  

* * *

 

 

Sherlock drifted back into consciousness to the sound of an argument.

“This wasn’t part of the plan.” A voice hissed. Male. Familiar. Howard Lewis.

Sherlock tried to open his eyes but stopped himself as pain throbbed at the back of his skull. 

“He won’t stop sniffing around, one more and then we’re done baby.” A girl reasoned, her tone light despite the fact they were discussing murder.

Louise Fowler.

Sherlock managed to open his eyes this time. He was still in the kitchen lain across the floor on his front with his head turned towards the living room where the couple were arguing. Louise had her arm wrapped around Howard’s neck, pulling him close so that their foreheads were pressed together and they were looking in each other’s eyes. They were completely focused on each other.

Louise Fowler shared the same physique as her sister, slim built with no existent curves with the added bonus of slightly muscular arms and legs. Her skin was dotted with tattoos. Her mousy hair bleached blonde and eyes decorated with thick black makeup. They were both wearing black.

There was another wave of pain and he blinked hard trying to fight against it.

Maeve.

The monitor crackled faintly in the background, unnoticeable to most but not to him. He could even make out the soft sound of breathing, Maeve was fine then, sleeping soundly and completely unaware of what was happening.

“I don’t like it.” Howard told her.

“Neither do I” Louise lied.

Sherlock pushed himself up onto his arms and spoke up. “She’s lying to you.”

Howard could still be reasoned with and he needed to get the upper hand quick before Maeve was put in more danger than she was already in.

The attention flipped to him and Louise smiled at him, wickedly. “Mr Holmes, you’re awake.”

“So it would seem.” The consulting detective winced, he’d managed to manoeuvre himself into a sitting position with his front to them and back towards the hallway. 

“You’ve been following me.” She accused.

“Only the one day.” Sherlock managed a grim smile, his head throbbing with the steady beat of his pulse.

“Your homeless network leave a lot to be desired in the art of stalking.” She told him, stepping into the kitchen and crouching down in front of him. “You, I didn’t even see you.”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow and looked up at Howard. “She’s a narcissist Howard, she doesn’t love you, and she never did. The only reason she wanted you was because you wanted her sister.”

“That’s not true.” He snapped.

“No? She wants the life you had.”

“You’re lying.” Howard stepped forward.

“Don’t listen to him baby, you know exactly how I feel about you.” Louise glanced over her shoulder. “I love you.”

“You’ll never get away with this now” the consulting detective informed them “my partners on his way home with a friend of mine, Detective Inspector Lestrade. They’ll be home any moment.”

“He’s lying.” Louise barked.

Howard stopped unsure, he opened his mouth to respond but was interrupted by the sound of crying through the monitor. Sherlock released a breath and shut his eyes, fantasies of getting out of this without Maeve being discovered completely shattered.

Louise jerked at the sound and Howard spun on the spot, head moving violently in search of the sound.

“I didn’t take you as the paternal type.” Louise raised her eyebrows and pulled her lips tight together.

“If you harm her in any way…” Sherlock began, voice threatening but slurring slightly.

“Oh, Mr Holmes, I’ll do far more than harm her.”

Howard looked shocked. “Louise, this is a baby we’re talking about.”

“No, it’s his baby.” She corrected, getting to her feet and looking down the hallway. “Imagine the pain knowing that he couldn’t protect his own baby, that he was only a few metres away when she died, all alone with no parents.”

“You wouldn’t get far” Sherlock warned, blinking past the pain and watching her intently as Maeve continued to wail in the bedroom. “John is ex-military and my brother runs the government, you’d disappear long before going to prison.”

“We could get away.” The blonde suggested smugly.

“You wouldn’t make it out of the street.”

“It’d be worth it though.” Louise stepped towards the bedroom, she was stopped by Howard grabbing her arm and pulling her back roughly.

“Louise, stop it. This isn’t what we discussed.” He argued, eyes pleading.

“No, it’s not.” She agreed.

Sherlock registered a flash of silver and a vicious blow to Howard’s stomach. The breath was stolen from his chest and Louise twisted her hand roughly before withdrawing a knife now glittering in the nigh time with blood. He grasped at his stomach as he collapsed onto the floor a few centimetres away from Sherlock’s foot, eyes wide and pleading as he struggled to breathe against the hardwood floor. 

“Oh baby” Louise cooed, looking down on her work with a sick sense of satisfaction “you should have listened to him, poor thing.”

Howard sputtered, coughing up blood that spattered over the floor and dribbled lazily down his chin as he continued to struggle for breath. Sherlock remained unmoved eyes fixed on Louise and calculating his precise next movements. Maeve was screaming now, Sherlock’s heart panged at the sound of her discomfort now manifesting in her screams of panic. She’d never been left alone for so long when upset, he was attentive to all her needs and would respond immediately to her cries of discomfort.

“Oh well, no use crying” Louise announced, her eyes glittering dangerously “now, let’s see to your little girl.”

The blonde twisted on the spot and it was as if the world slowed down, Sherlock saw her hair fan out around her shoulders and the slow step of her boot on the floor with a resounding thump. The knife glittered in the moonlight that filtered through kitchen window, blood dripping from the blade and her knuckles white from her tight grip on the handle. Sherlock acted completely out of instinct, pushing himself up and lunging towards the girl. His body collided with hers, catching Louise unaware and sending them both tumbling into the wall.

Louise grunted in surprise.

Sherlock fought through the pain in his skull and the nausea threatening to build up inside of him.

The cries were louder now. Sherlock hoped that someone would hear them and come to investigate, his mind was blurring and his actions sloppy, he wouldn’t be able to keep this up for much longer.  

They landed in a pile with a hard thump, her knee jabbing him in the stomach as he landed on top of her with a pained groan.

“You should have left well enough alone.” Louise spat.

She moved quickly. It was quicker than he could in his disorientated state and she struck him hard in the side. He registered the searing pain as she withdrew the knife in one quick well practised movement, leaving him breathless.  

Sherlock blinked in surprise.

The consulting detective pulled back from his position on top of her and clutched at his side, blood wetting his hands as he applied pressure to the wound.

Superficial. No major organs or arteries hit. No bone damage.

Risk of blood loss.

It was getting harder to breath.

Maeve.

She was still crying.

Louise pushed him back and he let her, body falling limp to the floor as she got to her knees. She looked down at him. “You’re a fool Sherlock Holmes.”

“For protecting those I love” He breathed “instead of killing them.”

“Amanda had it coming” She hissed.

 “Freeze.” A new voice shouted. Lestrade.

There was an audible click of a pistol.

Good, John was here too.

Louise paused, eyes fixed on the two new arrivals and knife glittering dangerously in her hand.

“Sherlock” John was the voice of concern “everything ok?”

Obviously not. The army-doctor could see as much.

“Maeve” Sherlock prompted.

There were sirens approaching in the background…good…that was good.

“Drop the weapon” Lestrade told her.

Louise complied and the knife clattered to the floor.

Sherlock blinked. He was struggling to keep his eyes open now, the pain was overwhelming and he wouldn’t be able to remain conscious much longer.

He opened his eyes to John hovering above him, a crying baby pressed firmly against his chest with one arm supporting her and the other on his torso, his hand pressing over Sherlock’s in an effort to stop the bleeding.

“Sir” a female voice called and there were footsteps, more than one set, possibly three…or four.

“Take her” Lestrade commanded, ushering Louise now handcuffed to the two uniformed officers as Sally came to settle beside him, eyes wide in shock as she looked down on the scene below her.

“Maeve…” Sherlock breathed “is she?”

“Fine” John nodded eagerly.

“Blunt force trauma to the back of the head, concussion” The consulting detective managed with a wince.

“Greg” John instructed. He handed over the baby, still screaming and focused on Sherlock. “The ambulance?”

“It’s here John, it’s here.” Sally told him.

Sherlock registered the voices in the back of his mind but was unable to respond as he fell into darkness.


	22. Twenty-Five Days Old

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft arrives at the scene and everyone goes to the hospital to see Sherlock.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, this chapter is not as long as I imagined it would be but I'm rushing slightly because I'm leaving in like an hour to go on holiday. Hope it's okay and enjoy, as i said before I will continue writing when I'm away but will most likely not be able to update. 
> 
> Thanks for the comments :)

The scene before him could only be described as anarchy, complete anarchy. There were police cars parked at all angles across the street with officers controlling the scene and two ambulances parked beside Gregory’s silver BMW, one empty and the other with two paramedics waiting eagerly by the open doors.

Gregory Lestrade stepped out of the house, glancing over his shoulder for a moment before looking forwards as he climbed the last two steps and spotted Mycroft stepping out of his car. A look of shock then followed by slight relief crossed his expression as he held a screaming Maeve tight to his chest. They met in the middle of the street, faces awash with the flashing blue lights as Mycroft peered at his niece apprehension. His grey eyes quickly scanned her body beneath the blanket, she was fine. Luckily.

Mycroft sighed in relief.

“She’s fine” Greg spoke above the crying as he rocked his body in an attempt to comfort the distraught child.

“Sherlock?” Mycroft asked, eyes darting to the wide open door.

Two paramedics manoeuvred a gurney out of the door and down the two steps carefully, his brothers strapped to the trolley with an oxygen mask over his face and his eyelids fluttering shut. John was glued to his side.

“Blunt force trauma to the back of the head and stab wound to the lower abdomen.” Greg told him.

“Allow me” Mycroft gestured to Maeve. The Detective Inspector handed over the screaming baby, allowing Mycroft to take her and move her so that her face was pressed into his neck and resting on his collar bone, the length of her body pressed against his and his hand planted firmly on her back.

“I’ll go in the ambulance with him.” John called to them.

Mycroft nodded and looked once more at his brother. The younger Holmes was pulling off his oxygen mask, face angled towards Mycroft and eyes struggling to focus through the shock and pain. “Maeve…”

“She’s fine” John reassured him, grabbing his hand and attempting to guide the mask back onto his mouth.

“I need to see her” He croaked, coughing violently.

Mycroft took the initiative and stepped closer to his younger brother, collected façade slipping as he watched the paramedic apply pressure to the wound on his brother’s lower left side. Sherlock flinched and he reached up, shaking off John’s hand and dropping the oxygen mask. The auburn haired man bent down slightly and Sherlock found her hand, he held it gently in his own.

“My darling…Daddy is so sorry” Sherlock mumbled, his eyes flicked to Mycroft. “Please…”

“I won’t let her out of my sight” Mycroft assured him. He understood immediately what his younger brother was trying to say and nodded.

“Come on you” John said quickly. “Let’s get you to the hospital.”

* * *

 

Mycroft was sat with his back impossibly straight on the uncomfortable plastic chair provided in the hospital waiting room, both arms clutched possessively over the baby pressed against his chest, sleeping soundly. A thin blanket was over her body protecting her from the strong lighting as she snored softly against his neck, warm breath tickling his skin with every exhale.

Maeve was fine, untouched and completely unharmed according to the paramedic on scene. Though she had ‘quite the set of lungs on her’ according to the female paramedic, she was just distressed and in need of comforting. That was easier said than done with Sherlock injured and on his way to hospital.

The elder Holmes somehow managed to calm her, bouncing her lightly and whispering reassuring words into her ear. She finally stopped crying and dozed off in the car. She woke when the car stopped outside of the hospital and he remained inside to feed her before venturing inside in search of his brother, Anthea directed him into the waiting room where the yarders, Gregory and John were waiting.

Anthea was on the seat beside him glued to her phone as usual, brown eyes occasionally flicking up to look at her boss or someone enter the room. Gregory was sat opposite with Sally and Anderson, as a concerned family member and member of New Scotland Yard. He managed a comforting smile at his partner. John was stood at the door unable to sit or stop himself from fussing over Maeve in an attempt to keep himself busy.

“I’ve taken the liberty of having the room opposite yours transformed into a nursery” Anthea informed him, tone a hushed as not to disturbed Maeve. “The staff are preparing for your arrival.”

“Thank you dear.” He managed a small smile of thanks. His grey eyes shifting to the doorway as his parents rushed inside their eyes ablaze with fear.

“Mycroft.” His father gave in rushed greeting.

“Is he ok?” Violet asked as she rushed towards her son, taking the chair next to his and angling her body to face his.

“What happened Mycroft?” His father asked.

Greg stood up and injected himself into the conversation. “Sherlock was attacked by the duo in a case we’ve been investigating, they broke into his home and hit him over the head.”

Violet gasped.

“He was stabbed attempting to protect Maeve.” Mycroft added. It was easy enough to deduce.

“Is she…” Siger started, words faltering and unable to finish.

“She’s fine.” John nodded. “They didn’t lay a finger on her, just upset.”

Siger perched on the coffee table directly opposite his son and wife. “Did he say anything?”

“Just that I was not to let her out of my sights.” Mycroft told them, instinctively glancing down to check his niece, the blanket moved with each breath and her snores loud enough for him to hear in the relative silence between conversation.

Siger nodded in understanding and lent forward to place a reassuring hand on his wife’s knee.

“Sherlock Holmes” The doctor announced looking up from his chart sheet to the occupants of the waiting room, he watched as eight people stood up and turned their full attention to him. “Are you all family?”

“New Scotland Yard” Sally told him brandishing her badge.

The doctor nodded and he informed them. “The wound to the back of the head was superficial but we’re monitoring him for signs of a concussion and the stab wound missed everything important. He’s a very lucky man.”

 

* * *

 

 

Sherlock drifted back into consciousness and was immediately aware of the rhythmic beating of a heart monitor and the murmur of voices. It was a hushed conversation in the corner of the room that he couldn’t quite make out in his disorientated state, his head throbbed violently and his side still burning as a result of the stab wound. His whole body hurt. The smell of antibacterial filled his nostrils along with sunflowers that was the work of his mother he was sure.

He forced his eyes open, blinking to adjust to the bright hospital lights before darting over the private hospital room. His mother and father were huddled in the corner of the room, talking.

“He could have died” His mother whispered.

Siger placed a comforting hand on her shoulder. “He’s fine.”

“What if he’d died?” His mother pressed, obviously very distressed.

“I didn’t” Sherlock croaked, speaking up. His parents focused was on him instantaneously and they crossed the room in seconds, standing at his bedside. “Maeve?”

“She’s fine Sherlock.” His father answered relieved to see his son awake and talking.

“Oh Sherlock” his Mother looked on the verge of tears.

Sherlock managed to roll his eyes. “Oh, please do shut up, I’ve got a concussion.”

 “You were also stabbed.” His father reminded him, as if he needed reminding.

The consulting detective managed a glare at his father and asked again. “Maeve?”

“She’s fine. Your brother is looking after her”

“I need to see her.” He demanded.

Siger nodded and Sherlock allowed himself to relax slightly into the uncomfortable hospital bed.

“You’re lucky to be alive” a voice told him from the door.

Sherlock craned his head to get a better look and winced at the movement. John was frowning at him or at least trying to, the look of relief on his face outshone the frown. “I told you before John that I am a very difficult man to kill.”

John shook his head and walked into the room, he took the seat beside the bed. 

Sherlock merely turned his head to the side becoming impatient, John placed his hand atop of the consulting detectives and squeezed tenderly.

He let his eyes fall shut

  

* * *

 

 

Sherlock’s eyes snapped open the moment he heard the familiar footsteps approaching the door, the sole of his brother’s particular brand of shoe unmistakable on the squeaky clean hospital flooring and the hard clinks of heels, Anthea was with him them.

He appeared in the doorway a looming figure accentuated by the bright lighting in the hallway with Maeve resting against his shoulder, a blanket over her the lower half of her small body. She had just woken up, her eyes still drooping from sleep and movements minimal but jagged.

“Please.” Sherlock said quickly. He was afraid that his voice would crack is he said more.

Mycroft nodded and crossed the room in a few graceful steps. He stopped for a second to scan over his brother’s body and decide on the best course of action before placing Maeve on Sherlock’s uninjured side. She was lain on her front with her head tucked neatly into his neck and hands resting on his bare chest. He shifted so that his nose was in her hairline and inhaled deeply as she blinked herself awake, the familiar scent washed over him. He closed his eyes and sighed contentedly.

“Thank you.” He murmured against her forehead.

Mycroft raised an eyebrow in surprise but said nothing in response. Sherlock had used the words ‘please’ and ‘thank you’ in the past minutes more times than he’d said them in a year.

“I’m sorry sweetheart” he whispered to his daughter as her hand ran over his chest and she pressed a kiss to his neck, less of a kiss and more of a taste of his skin.


	23. Twenty-Seven Days Old

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock is recovering, he shares some tender moments with his father between his mother's fussing and the arrival of her nosy friends.

“Stop fussing or I swear, I will re-admit myself back into hospital,” Sherlock warned, eyes following his Mother as she cleaned the already pristine room of (what she considered to be) clutter, in this case consisting of: a changing mat and changing bag, clothes, bottles, muslins, soft toys, blankets, a bouncy chair, a maternity pillow and a pile of books. She ignored her son in favour of tidying the room around him; he was laid across the plum chesterfield sofa in the lounge room with his head propped against the arm on a pillow and his feet hanging off the opposite end.

“The nurses wouldn’t take you back, even if you begged” Siger mocked as he came back into the room with a pile of books from the library. He set them down on the table and took a seat in the sofa opposite to his son and picked up one of the discarded book his son had thrown carelessly onto the table.

Sherlock rolled his eye and shifted marginally, wincing as his stiches pulled uncomfortably. Violet looked up at the sound, eyes full of immediate concern and Siger had paused, book held open but practically forgotten in his lap.

“I’m fine,” the consulting detective dismissed quickly, glancing at the sleeping baby nuzzled protectively against his chest with her small head leaning on his collar bone as she snored softly; undisturbed by the pained sound and slight movement.

His father was right, in the single night and morning he’d spent at the hospital he’d managed to offend every nurse and doctor that tended to him. That afternoon, with Mycroft’s approval, he was released into the care of John Watson. Maeve had spent the night with his elder brother and was back with him, today though John had to run some errands leaving Sherlock in the capable hands of his parents.

“You shouldn’t be overexerting yourself” Violet reminded his for the umpteenth time.

“I’m hardly overexerting myself” Sherlock scoffed; he used the hand that was not currently supporting his daughter to caress the soft hairs atop of her head.

 Violet shot Siger a look that said ‘he’s your son too, tell him’. Siger held his hands up in defeat and told her simply “he’s right.”

“Mycroft would not stand for any of this” his Mother voiced.

“Good thing he’s not here then” Sherlock stated.

“Sherlock” his mother scolded, swatting at his arm as she reached to pick up a round soft bee toy that had somehow found its way under the coffee table. Sherlock caught sight of the toy in his mother’s hand and reached towards her with his free arm, missing the toy but the intention clear. She sighed and handed it to him, “you’re such a child.”

“And a parent” He reminded her with a raised eyebrow as he brought the toy towards his chest and placed it beside his daughter, though she was still asleep she’d want it later.

“A childish parent” she corrected.

“Please” Sherlock rolled his eyes “I’m hardly the childish one.”

“Shut up and go to sleep” Siger commanded with no real bite behind it.

Sherlock’s eyes widened marginally but he didn’t respond, instead he shrugged and turned his head to face the back of the sofa; nose pressing against the top of Maeve’s hair. The soft strands tickled his nose, he ignored the sensation and closed his eyes.

 

* * *

 

Sherlock woke to a tiny fist hitting his chest and soft grunt against his collarbone, he grimaced as Maeve shifted her body against his; foot ghosting over the stitches beneath his clothes. He opened his eyes and found himself alone with his father and Maeve; Siger was sat in the exact place he had been earlier, book resting on his knee and eyes on his son.

“Shut up” Sherlock demanded.

Siger managed a small laugh of amusement, “I didn’t say anything.”

“You were thinking, it’s annoying.” Sherlock informed him, stormy eyes flicking to his daughter.

Maeve grunted again in frustration as she blinked the sleep out of her eyes and Sherlock brought his free hand (the one that had been holding the soft toy which was now forgotten on the floor) and stroked over her head, down her back and stopped on her bum. He patted the bulky nappy underneath her clothes and yawned loudly.

“Awake my little terror?” He asked her. She didn’t respond, she didn’t yet have the capability instead she lifted her head up to look at his face. She dropped it back down after a moment and grasped at his silk shirt, fist balling in the soft material.

“Your mother is making you something to eat and entertaining the gaggle of hens,” Siger interrupted, hating to disturb his son during such a tender moment but wanting to warn his younger son before his wife descended once again.

“Not hungry!” Sherlock announced, his attention fixed on Maeve.

“You’re recovering” his father reminded him as though he needed reminding of that fact.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and moved his hands to grasp Maeve under the arms, lifting her up and following suit, he moved into a sitting position with grace but lacking his usual speed. He brought her to his chest and nestled her face into his neck, she greedily accepted the skin and suckled on it enthusiastically. “Did Daddy sleep too long? Not give you enough attention?” He kissed the top of her head and kept his lips there, lips moving against her soft scalp as he continued “my poor baby. What must you think of me?”

Maeve growled against the sensitive skin of his neck and Sherlock paused; he glanced down at Maeve and chuckled in amusement, his chest rumbling with the sound. She did it again and Sherlock snuck a look at his father, Siger looked at the scene with pure joy and complete amazement.

“She hasn’t growled before,” Sherlock explained and if his father didn’t know any better he’d say his son was slightly embarrassed by his actions “it’s a reflex like crying or gurgling but it’s about the feeling, babies enjoy the feeling just like she enjoys the way my chest rumbles when I laugh or talk. It’s based purely on sensation but will later develop to indicate displeasure.”

“You do not have to justify yourself to me” Siger told him with a small smile.

“Don’t I?” The consulting detective challenged.

“Only the life changing things” Siger answered with an amused expression “like having a baby.”

“Well I’ll be sure to justify it the next time I have a baby” Sherlock raised an eyebrow and continued the light heartedness, he wasn’t about to go out of his way to cause an argument two days after being discharged from hospital.

“God” his father exhaled “one grandchild was a big enough shock.”

“I doubt I’ll be making anymore” Sherlock assured him as placed another kiss on his daughter’s head, eyes fixed on his father as he spoke “unless me or John sudden develop the ability to conceive a child between us.”

“You could adopt or there’s always surrogacy”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow “I’m not interested in children.”

Siger glanced at Maeve and spoke gently “you do have a child.”

“I’m not interested in anymore children” He clarified quickly “Maeve is the exception, the only exception.”

Siger nodded and spoke tenderly, “you have exceeded my expectations.”

Sherlock gave nothing away, not a sliver of emotion as he craned his neck down and closed his eyes to inhale deeply the scent of his daughter.

 

* * *

 

“You didn’t have to come all this way,” Violet voiced politely as she placed the tea pot on the kitchen table between the three women sat there, they had arrived unannounced, something which Arabella had apologised profusely for when she’d drawn her into a long hug at the front door. Beatrice and Cecily had seen the incident in the papers and come to collect her before descending on Violet, completely out of concern according to them.

The three ladies were sat comfortably at the kitchen table while Violet hurried around the kitchen, putting the finishing touches on the soup that was being kept warm on the stove. “Everything is fine, Sherlock has been discharged from hospital and is recovering.”

“The papers mentioned Maeve,” Arabella broached out of concern for her oldest friend.

Violet opened her mouth to speak but another much deeper voice cut in. “Untouched.”

The women turned to face the owner, Sherlock was stood in the doorway with Maeve cradled against his chest. His hair mussed and eyes cold as they flicked over the three women analytically before he dropped his gaze back to his daughter and stepped into the room. His father a step behind him as he walked across to the breakfast bar and took a seat, his movement slow and pained though he kept his expression clear.

“Maeve was at the flat but the intruder was not alerted to her presence” Siger began to explain, he hated that he had to justify his son to these women, though he didn’t mind Arabella, it was the gossip Beatrice he loathed.

“I managed to distract them long enough until she cried” Sherlock managed a weak smile as Maeve sucked on his pale neck, spittle dripping down his neck and pooling in the dip in the middle of his collar bone, the Suprasternal Notch. Siger handed him a muslin from the bag he carried in the room with him and the consulting detective dabbed at the wetness, continuing in a softer tone and talking directly to Maeve this time, “but Daddy made sure they couldn’t get to you.”

“And got stabbed in the process” Siger added.

“A price worth paying” Sherlock announced simply.

The room had fallen silent and all eyes were on him in pure astonishment and shock, as though he had transformed into some kind of beautiful creature as opposed to the monster he usually seemed to be, he suspected it was that they had never seen him show concern for another human being or act quite so human himself. He rolled his eyes and said simply, “I need a bottle.”

Violet nodded and set herself about preparing one while Arabella asked. “Where is that dashing soldier of yours then?”

“On call” Sherlock answered with a pout “a patient of his took a turn for the worst this morning, I am capable but he thought that I needed babysitting.”

“Taking care of” Siger corrected with raised eyebrows, he took the seat beside his son at the breakfast bar.

“I am fully capable of taking care of myself and besides, it’s not the first time I’ve been injured working a case” Sherlock argued, he gave his father a pointed look and lifted Maeve slightly in a silent gesture. Siger nodded eagerly and his son handed her over, allowing him to hold his granddaughter and watching carefully as he shifted her to rest in his arms, cradled protectively and ready for feeding. Maeve looked up at him blinking curiously before settling down and entertaining herself by chewing no her own fist.

“He was more worried about you tearing your stitches” his mother said knowingly as she returned with a bottle and handed it to her husband. He took off the cap and checked the temperature under Sherlock’s watchful gaze before putting the teat to her lips, she considered it for a moment before opening her mouth and drinking hungrily.

“I’m fine” Sherlock quickly dismissed.

“I trust you solved the case then” Beatrice voiced.

“Oh yes, by breaking in my house with the intention of killing me she provided all the proof needed.”

“She was arrested on the charges of: four counts of murder, including that of two strangers, her sister and her partner; GBH and the attempted murder of one Sherlock Holmes; also the intent to harm Maeve Holmes” Siger told them, Mycroft had kept him informed on every detail “she’ll be in prison for the rest of her life with no chance of parole or early release on good behaviour.”

“Just so” Sherlock scoffed, leaning forward on his chair and ignoring the pull of his stitches to smooth the soft hairs atop of his daughters head with the back of his hand. Her eyes flicked to him but she kept drinking.

 

* * *

 

Mycroft stepped into the living room to find Sherlock resting on the floor with his back against the sofa for support, legs bent and spread to allow room for Maeve. She was strapped into a beige coloured bouncer with a teddy bear on it and matching teddy bears hanging from the arch over her though she was far more interested in his brother’s hand, she was eagerly chewing on the offered digits that were dripping with spit.

“Thank God” Sherlock announced, turning to look at his brother as he stepped into the room.

“Mother’s friends are here” Mycroft observed, nose scrunching up in distaste.

“Save me” Sherlock pleaded, glancing back at his daughter as she gurgled around his finger.

“To Baker Street”

 

* * *

 

“You’re home” John stated the moment he stepped into the bedroom wearing nothing but a towel secured around his waist.

Sherlock was stretched out on the bed, lain on his back with his eyes closed and shirt unbuttoned revealing the bandage covering his stitched. Maeve was on her back beside him, awake and looking with awe up at the stars cast onto the ceiling by the nightlight. Sherlock creaked an eye open to look at his partner, an amused smirk on his face and remarked, “It appears so.”

“How are you feeling?” John asked shifting effortlessly into doctor mode as he crossed the room to retrieve some underwear from the dresser.

“Fine”

John glanced over his shoulder at the consulting detective. “Just fine?

“Hmm” Sherlock hummed and offered his finger to Maeve. The infant took it without question and held it in her own smaller fist and gurgled happily.  


	24. Twenty-Eight Days Old

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock works a case for Dimmock and John enjoys an evening down the pub with his army buddies.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for not updating, university hasn't even started yet and I am so behind on all the vacation tasks. I'm hoping to update within the week and then will be on holiday for two weeks, so no updates. After that I'm back at Uni and am hoping to be updating fairly regularly between work and stuff.
> 
> And, on a side note I've managed to get Hamlet tickets for me and my friends, so happy.

The buzzing of his mobile phone woke him up. The offensive hissing of the mobile jumping up and down on the wooden dresser too loud in the silent flat, Sherlock growled and reached out blindly for the source before it woke Maeve up. He pressed ‘call’ and brought the mobile to his ear without bothering to open his eyes, his voice rough with sleep, “Sherlock Holmes.”

“This is Detective Inspector Dimmock” the voice on the other end of the line introduced.

Idiot. Detective Inspector Dimmock had called him in for a few cases since ‘aiding’ him with The Blind Banker case, as John had titled it on his blog, and he seemed adept at calling Sherlock for relatively interesting cases.

Sherlock opened his eyes, he was flat on his back with his head angled towards John’s side of the bed which was now occupied with Maeve, sleeping soundly in the maternity pillow that was positioned into an arrow head position to support her tiny body. She was freshly changed, fed and asleep by the look of it. John had left fifteen minutes prior and somehow managed to be quiet enough not to wake him, he must have been in a deep sleep, something he was lacking in since the arrival of Maeve, not that he was complaining his body could cope on low levels of sleep.

“Is there something that you needed Detective Inspector?” Sherlock asked, sure to keep his voice low as not to disturb his daughter.

“There was a case that I was hoping you would consult on.” He sounded hopeful, interesting.

“The case?” The consulting detective pushed himself up with one hand to leave against the headboard, supressing a wince as his stitches pulled uncomfortably and he kept his gaze on Maeve.

“The body of a woman was found at the national gallery.”

National Gallery, this could be interesting he thought to himself. “We can be there within the hour, don’t let anyone contaminate the scene and clear it for potentially harmful and dangerous toxins.”

“Toxins?” Dimmock asked, confused by the instruction. “Will you be brining Doctor Watson with you?”

“No” Sherlock answered “but I will be bringing my daughter and I’ll need you to make sure that there is nothing that could harm here present at the scene.”

“You’re brining your daughter?” He sounded shocked.

“Hmm” Sherlock was beginning to get bored with the conversation, “I have no other childcare available and I cannot bother anyone for anything under a seven. Give me an hour.”

 

* * *

 

Sherlock arrived at the National Gallery exactly an hour later. It had taken thirty-one minutes to get himself and Maeve ready, three minutes to flag down a taxi and get Maeve strapped in to her carseat, and twenty-six minutes for the journey. He’d wrestled Maeve into a brand new papoose, the most expensive in the shop and far superior to the one he’d been using previously. The carrier was made of a deep purple material and allowed Maeve to be positioned upright, facing towards him with her head lent on his chest as she continued to sleep soundlessly. It was far securer than the carrier that he had previously used and he found himself gently cupping her head despite himself.

The matching bag was hooked delicately over his shoulder with all the essentials and the carseat in his hand. Sherlock was allowed under the tape by the officers on scene and strode through the gallery until he located Dimmock. He was stood in one of the large doorways that led into a different gallery, police tape cordoning off the area. His arms were crossed over his torso and eyes widened at the sight of Sherlock striding towards him. He dropped his arms to the side and exclaimed, “Blimey.”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow and stopped in front of him, placing the carseat and bag on the floor. “You are aware that I’d reproduced, yet you seem surprised to me with the result.”

“I…well, yes I was aware but it’s just hard to imagine.” Dimmock ran a hand through his hair, eyes fixed on the baby attached to Sherlock.

“Well then introductions” Sherlock cleared his throat awkwardly, “Detective Inspector Dimmock, this is my daughter Maeve Holmes.”

The dark blonde craned his neck slightly to get a better view at the infant and smiled at the sight of her sleeping; mouth open and a line of dribble running down her chin but somehow managing to miss her father’s dark blue suit. “She’s the image of you.”

“So I’ve been told.” He drawled.

Dimmock cleared his throat and straightened his back, standing upright and producing his notebook. “The scene was cleared of any harmful substances of toxins. The victim was found this morning when the guards checked the gallery, she’s one of Art restorers here at the gallery and was working late last night, her husband called to report her missing last night when she didn’t return home but…”

“There is a twenty-four hour protocol on missing persons unless a child is involved.” Sherlock finished for him with a faked smile as they both ducked up the tape.

Dimmock continued, “The CCTV tapes were wiped clean and there are no fingerprints on the body.”

Sherlock stepped closer to the body. The victim was on the floor, back arched with a leg caught underneath her body and arms flailed out messily, she was positioned as she fell then. Neck snapped, bruising around the throat obvious and her eyes wide open and glassy. She was underneath Whistlejacket, a George Stubbs painting of a horse of its hinds legs.  But, her head was looking back with her eyes focused (as much as a dead persons eyes could be focused) on The Fighting Temeraire, a Joseph Mallord William Turner painting.

 Too easy.

“What do you reckon?” Dimmock asked.

“I reckon that you are wasting my time” Sherlock announced. He took a step away from the body and ran his hand over his daughter’s delicate head, fingers lingering against the soft hairs dusting her scalp. The hair was thickening, almost unnoticeably but he could feel the hair growing and ends curling against his fingertips.

“What?” Dimmock exclaimed.

The consulting detective gestured to the painting that the victim’s eyes were fixed upon and began, “Look, her eyes are telling you everything. She was working late for a reason but not painting, look at her arms, there are no splatters, so why was she working late? She was killed here in the gallery, there was a reason that she picked here, who was she meeting?”

“You think she set up a meeting here?”

“I know that” he gestured towards the Turner painting “this painting is a fake and as a restorer here she knew that, she was meeting with someone higher up on the food chain but they already know, I suspect it’s an underground operation to sell the original on the black market. They killed her because she figured it out.”

“How do we find him?” Dimmock asked, not bothering to reign in his surprise at how the man had figured it all out with a single look at the scene.

“Skin under the nails, he’ll have scratches on his arms.”

Dimmock nodded and barked out some orders at the officers before turning back to the consulting detective. “Thank you.”

Sherlock fake a smile.

 

* * *

 

“You’re going out” Sherlock observed. He was sat in his armchair with one leg crossed elegantly over the other and baby Maeve cradled in his arms drinking from her bottle eagerly. Sherlock looked up at John as he walked down the hallway and stopped into the kitchen doorway. The ex-army doctor was freshly washed and dressed in a white and red checked shirt, tucked neatly into his jeans with a brown belt and matching shoes. His coat was hooked over his arm.

John frowned. “I told you the day before yesterday.”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes for a moment before shrugging, dropping it and admitting. “Deleted it.”

“Of course you did” John smiled, “I guess I’ll leave you two to it.”

“Don’t be too loud” Sherlock told him.

John rolled his eyes and crossed the room. He placed a chaste kiss on his partner’s lips, then lowered himself down to kiss Maeve’s forehead, she was undisturbed by the action. Instead, she focused on her dinner.

“Yes, dear.” John mocked, laughing as he pulled on his coat and left the flat.

Sherlock listened to his footsteps retreat down the steps and the final slam of the door. He looked down at Maeve, “just the two of us.”

She blinked up at him and stopped eating, letting the teat slide across her lips. Sherlock pulled it back and placed it on the small table and dabbed at her milky lips, he told her “he is going to be drunk when he gets home.”

Sherlock sighed and looked around the flat, there on the kitchen table was John’s phone. Idiot.

“Let’s go for a walk” Sherlock told Maeve.

 

* * *

 

“Johnny” a chorus broke out the moment he stepped into the pub.

The familiar faces of his army buddies littering the pub, all with pints in their hands and cheery grins on their faces. He sighed, bracing himself for the onslaught and was manhandled by two of the larger lads: Brian and Thompson, and pushed towards the bar.

Murray immediately handed him a pint, grinning like a mad man and then ushered him towards a large booth; placing John on the edge with a spare seat beside him while the others were occupied. The table was crowded full of faces from his army days: Murray, Brian, Lewis, Thompson, William and John. All older than the last time they’d met in this fashion.

“So, Johnny we’ve all been catching up,” Murray informed him with a devilish smirk.

“Right” John frowned.

“And we were wondering…” Murray began.

Thompson finished, barely managing to contain his chuckle “…what three-continents Watson has been enjoying during his retirement?”

“I mean, we’ve all read about it in the papers” Brian interjected.

“And on your blog” Lewis added, sipping delicately at his beer.

“So this fellow…” Murray prompted, brown eyes fixed on John in amusement and blatant curiosity.

“Sherlock Holmes” John told them, picking up his beer and taking a sip of it. He had, of course expected this but didn't think it would be happening quite so soon in the evening. 

“Are you a couple?” Thompson asked. Still no tact, John made a mental note as he looked over the rim of his glass at the larger man with dark hair.

The ex-army doctor placed his pint back on the table completely aware of a table’s worth of eyes watching his every moment, he sat back and crossed his arms loosely over his chest. “We are.”

“I knew it.” Murray announced and the lads bickered about who knew or not for a moment.

Thompson was the first to speak again. “I saw something in the papers about him being a father.”

John nodded, “Twenty-eight day old Maeve.”

“He has a kid,” and “Johnny’s a father now” were two things he caught.

He cleared his throat and informed them, voice steady. “I am in a very happy fulfilling relationship with a man that no matter what he says, has the biggest…”

“Too much information” Brian groaned.

John rolled his eyes and continued “heart. He is amazing and I adore his daughter, I am very happy.”

“You’ve gone soppy” Murray commented with mocking smile, he placed a hand on John’s shoulder and looked at him with doe eyes.

John shook off his hand. “I have not gone soppy.”

“Do I have a say in this?” A voice asked. John recognised the deep baritone and swivelled in his seat to see Sherlock standing behind him with a mobile phone held out in his hand and baby Maeve attached to his front in a papoose. She was awake but leaning on his chest her eyes open and flicking from his shirt to his face every couple of seconds, like she wanted to make sure he was their despite being attached to him.

The army lads were all staring at him eyes full of curiosity and amazement, the tall looming figure of Sherlock Holmes did not fit into the homey pub setting. His coat dramatic and stormy eyes flicking over each person at the table, reading their lives with a glance, hair windblown.

“Sherlock” John breathed, completely blown away by the sight of him.

“You forgot your phone” the corners of his mouth tugged up, amused by the sight of the blonde and his army friends.

“Thank you.” John stood and he took the phone from his partner’s extended hand. “You came all this way to give me my phone.”

“I feel safer knowing that you have it, in case something happens.” Sherlock admitted. His eyes were fixed on John, ignoring the other people at the table and John could see a flash of worry in his expression.

There was a moment of silence.

“You shouldn’t be overexerting yourself,” John told him, brows furrowing. Sherlock rolled his eyes and brushed his hand over Maeve’s head. John frowned, “I’m serious, and you’ve been through a massive trauma.”

“I’m not and it was barely a scratch,” Sherlock assured him, turning his attention to the other’s situated around the table, his tone light and slightly mocking. “He worries.”

“I wasn’t stabbed earlier this week” John grumbled.

“We’re going home” he announced, patting Maeve’s head lightly in an affectionate gesture.

“Oh, mate, you could at least stay for a pint.” Murray spoke up, looking disappointed.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, “perhaps another time, I’ve got to put my daughter to bed.”

There was a chorus of disappointed ‘ohs’ and John shook his head in disbelief, he hadn’t expected them to take to Sherlock quite so easily and now he wouldn’t hear the end of it. “Be safe.” John instructed him, leaning towards him slightly.

Sherlock placed a chaste kiss on his lips completely unfazed by their audience, “I always am.”

John snorted in disbelief, “You are a danger magnet.”

“I thought you loved danger” Sherlock quirked an eyebrow.

“Shut up and go home you smart man.” John shook his head and bent down to pay Maeve some attention, running his hand over her head and placing a kiss in its wake. She didn’t react to the kiss of attention, instead focused on leaning completely on Sherlock’s chest in an attempt to sleep.

Sherlock looked amused and turned to leave, calling out behind him. “Genius John, I am a genius.”

There was silence as Sherlock exited the pub.

“I like him.” Murray announced as John retook his seat and drank his pint.

“Seems nice” Thompson added.

“And you’re smitten” Brian said.

Lewis smirked at him. “Completely one hundred percent smitten.”

“Johnny’s in love” Murray wailed at the top of his voice.

John closed his eyes, put down his pint and told them simply, “shut up.”


	25. Thirty Days Old

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John go to New Scotland Yard to finalize the details of the case and his stabbing, John calls himself 'Papa' and they talk about it over dinner. Mycroft has to cancel his Wednesday visit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I go on holiday tomorrow for two weeks, so no updates. I will update as quickly as possible upon my return, which may or may not be quick, we'll have to wait and see but i promise not to keep you guys waiting too long.

The moment Sherlock woke up he was instantly aware that he was alone, not only was John missing from beside him but Maeve was no longer in the room either. It was early, John should still be passed out, completely wiped out from his ‘night out’ with his army friends or severely hungover, at least. He pushed the covers back and swung his legs round, feet touching the cold floor with a gentle pat. He ached, his body and the wound on his torso sore but not hurting, he pushed the sensation aside; he’d had worse.

He found John in the living room, sat on his armchair with a cup of tea, half finished, on the table beside him and Maeve on his lap. The consulting detectives daughter was perched on his lap, sat up with her back against his chest in a sitting position, her neck craned backwards to look up at John. His hand on her chest to keep her upright and a soft toy dolphin in the other to entertain her.

“You could have woke me” Sherlock announced his presence from the doorway.

John twisted his neck, the smile on his face transforming into a grin at the sight of his partner fresh from bed. Sherlock’s hair was wild, mussed and one cheek rosy from being slept on. He didn’t look annoyed, only mildly amused and surprised. John cleared his throat and turned his attention back towards Maeve, “I was already awake.”

“You didn’t come home inebriated,” he observed.

John shrugged, “I had a few pints.”

“Two” Sherlock corrected, walking into the room and taking the seat opposite his partner.

“I just didn’t feel like drinking” John dismissed, dropping the toy onto his lap and taking Maeve’s hands into his own. He moved them around in fast but not too strenuous circles mimicking dance moves.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at the shorter blonde, eyes flicking over him critically, “you didn’t want to drink too much on my account.”

“Hang on…” John started to protest.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and clarified, “Maeve’s behalf, you didn’t want to risk waking her or me, instead you sacrificed your own fun for our sakes.”

“I had fun” John told him honestly, “I just had fun without drinking too much, alcohol does not a good time make.”

Sherlock shrugged and placed his hands on the arms of the chair, pushing his body up until he was crouching on the leather. John watched intently, reminded of the second time he visited Baker Street after the consulting detective had found the pink suitcase. He remained perched like a bird of prey, small pupils watching his daughter and the blonde attentively. John blinked then caught on to what he wanted and stood up, supporting Maeve with one hand across her chest and the other on her bum; he handed her over to the consulting detective who reached for her eagerly. Sherlock replaced John’s hands with his own cautiously, then brought the small wiggling baby close to his chest. She smiled against his collar bone as he stood up in the chair and stepped down elegantly, long legs keeping the movement smooth and leaving Maeve undisturbed.

“Fed, changed” Sherlock deduced, tilting his head down and sniffing at the top of his daughter’s head. “Not bathed but she was washed yesterday, due in the evening and has not yet spit up, burped and ready to sleep within the next hour and a half.”

“Brilliant” John muttered more to himself than anyone else.

“Lestrade texted, he wants to make sure he has all the details on the Fowler case” Sherlock informed John keeping his tone light and eyes on Maeve.

“Are you sure that’s…” John attempted to broach the subject, standing behind his armchair and his hands resting on the top of it, blue eyes looking to Sherlock with caution and worry. Sherlock raised an eyebrow expectantly and he finished “wise?”

“The case needs to be closed.”

“You do remember that she stabbed you a little over a week ago?” He asked.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes, offended by the accusation and reminded him. “I am a genius John, I’m hardly likely to forget the moment I was stabbed.”

“I know” John made clear, “It’s just, is it sensible?”

Sherlock scoffed loudly and sat down in his armchair, keeping Maeve close to him as he moved. He didn’t answer John, instead he focused on Maeve and talked to her. “Did John get up with you this morning?”

“Papa John was already awake” He retold him as he walked into the kitchen with a sigh.

Sherlock looked up at John’s retreating form in surprise. The doctor seemed unaware of the slip but Sherlock had caught it, of course he had, Papa John, interesting. John had specifically referred to himself as that, it wasn’t something that they’d talked about…Sherlock needed more information.

 

* * *

 

It was disconcerting. Sherlock had become accustomed to the stares as he strode through New Scotland Yard, the hard glares and muttered words as he ignored them, face harsh and coat billowing out dramatically behind him. Something he was not accustomed to the small smile of pity and flashes of concern then replaced by relief. The wide eyes of Yarders followed him as he strode through the building at a slightly slower pace, Maeve snuggled tightly against his chest between his shirt and open blazer, her quiet snores only audible to his ears as he moved with John close behind. The army doctor carrying the slack with the baby bag hooked over his shoulder and buggy, fixed with the car seat instead of the pram setting.

Lestrade met them at the corner with a small smile and lead them towards his office. “Good to see you.”

“Is it?” Sherlock asked, Lestrade hated paperwork especially where he and John were concerned.

John snorted and Greg turned his head as they walked, offended by the question. “Believe it or not, we are friends and I like you, I do not like the extra paperwork you put me through.”

“Likewise, Graham.” Sherlock responded somewhat robotically, totally out of his depth.

“It’s Greg.” John corrected chuckling.

“Is it?” Sherlock asked, once again, bros furrowing.

“Yes” Greg was not offended, just tired and sighed loudly as they walked into the homicide department.

Sally was waiting by the door to Lestrade’s office with Anderson, not talking, just waiting and her eyes softened at the sight of him. Sherlock recognised the flashes of concern and relief, similar to the rest of the Yarders. “Coffee?”

“Water for him” John said quickly before Sherlock could respond.

Sherlock spun around to face him, continuing to move backwards with grace and raised an eyebrow. John sighed and explained, like he was an idiot, he looked far too dramatic for a man holding a baby tight to him. There was no way that a man carrying a baby should look that intimidating. “You are still recovering and caffeine will keep you awake.”

“I need to be awake for this.” Sherlock said simply, pouting as he turned back to face Sally and stepped into the office after Lestrade.

John followed, “but you need to rest.”

“You’re worse than my parents” Sherlock glowered, sitting down on the sofa as opposed to one of the two chairs opposite Lestrade’s at the desk.

“I’m concerned, just like your parents.” The blonde corrected, setting the buggy up beside the sofa and taking a seat in one of the chairs opposite Lestrade, he thanked Sally when she placed two glasses of water on the desk.

Sherlock grumbled to himself, he adverted his eyes to Maeve and kept them there.

“Ignore him, he’s grumpy” John informed them all, crossing one leg over the other and placing his hands atop of his knees.

“I am not grumpy” Sherlock exclaimed, eyes flicking up to the blonde with harshness.

“You ok?” Lestrade asked, wanting to change the subject and check on his friend simultaneously.

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

“Fine, let’s get on with this then.” Greg said quickly, Sherlock obviously was not in the mood for talking, though that wasn’t uncommon it was better to get this over with as quickly as possible.

 

* * *

 

“And you’re sure that’s everything?” Greg asked, placing the written statement on the desk and fixing Sherlock with a stern look.

Sherlock mocked offense, nose scrunching up and choosing to instead look over at John, Maeve was still asleep but now in his shorter arms, hands resting by her face in small fists. He took a breath and answered calmly, it would be far easier to escape if he was courteous. “I heard a noise and went to investigate, I was hit over the head and knocked unconscious for approximately five minutes, when I regained consciousness I was aware of two things: that Maeve was still sleeping soundly and that they were both in my flat, I bided my time and tried to turn them against each other. Maeve woke and Louise then thought that hurting her was the best way to me” the room was completely silent, only his deep voice filling the quiet as they watched him intently. Greg watching him with deep brown eyes across the desk, John focusing on Maeve but his blue eyes flicking to his partner ever so often and Sally in the corner, particularly affected by the story. She already knew but hearing it from him in this way was hard. “Howard was not particularly pleased with the plan and she used his hesitation to stab him, when she focused again on Maeve I used her turning her back to me as my advantage to tackle her to the ground. The landing was not eloquent and she stabbed me.”

There was a moment of silence.

Then John broke the silence, his voice tight but cheery. “And that’s when papa John and Uncle Greg arrived.”

Sherlock’s head snapped to him. John was addressing Maeve directly, her blue eyes opening slowly, long dark eyelashes fluttering against her cheeks. She yawned loudly.

He said it again Sherlock thought to himself as he watched the blonde with his daughter, interesting.

Greg had also registered the slip, his eyes widening in shock and mouth parting questioningly. His eyes flicked to Sherlock who merely shrugged his shoulders slightly in response to the silent question and focused more intently on his daughter.

Maeve whined loudly.

“You want your Daddy?” John asked. He was getting to know the infant rather well and was well aware that she preferred the company of her father the moment she woke, and though she tolerated him, when she knew he was in the room she preferred him. She knew exactly what she wanted, he supposed that she got that from Sherlock.

“Incorrigible” Sherlock muttered beneath his breath, to a stranger it would seem like annoyed statement but those better acquainted with him were able to see beneath, the corner of his mouth tugging up in amusement and fondness seeping into his baritone.

“Just like her father” John returned, raising an eyebrow at the dark haired man and lifting Maeve up, away from his body, supported in both of his strong hands.

Sherlock reached out, accepting her small body and brought her close to him. He held her in his large palm, her side pressing against his torso and looked down at her, affectionately.

“I guess we’re done then” Greg told them, placing the lid on his pen.

“Finally” Sherlock declared, standing up in one fluid movement while keeping Maeve close to his body, he lifted her up higher so that she was closer to his face and nipped her fingers tenderly as she raised them to her lips. She smiled at him. Sherlock smiled back despite himself.

 

* * *

 

They found themselves at Angelo’s for dinner, on their usual table that Angelo insisted on reserving with Maeve replacing the chairs so that she was looking at Sherlock from inside her pram, they had changed it back to a pram as opposed to the car seat setting on the deep purple buggy. Maeve was awake but keeping herself entertained with the arch above her pram, toys and a mirror hanging above her. They had already ordered, water with ice and a glass of red wine in front of them both.   

“You called yourself ‘Papa’ earlier” Sherlock said, not one to beat around the bush.

John choked on his drink and coughed loudly, drawing the attention of the other guests. He placed his hand over his mouth, taking deep breaths and managed to stop coughing. He focused on Sherlock and wheezed. “What?”

“You called yourself ‘Papa’, twice.” Sherlock sighed, hating to repeat himself.

“I…” John started, stopping himself as Angelo approached with their meals.

He placed them on the table, with a wink to them and coo to baby Maeve disappeared.

They started eating, Sherlock spinning his spaghetti carbonara around his fork and plopping it delicately into his mouth. John stabbed a piece of penne and ventured, “Do you mind?”

“No” The consulting detective answered quickly around his mouthful of pasta.

“No?” John repeated.

“No.”

“I was being presumptuous” The blonde declared, forking a piece of chicken along with his pasta and putting it into his mouth, he chewed delicately as Sherlock watched him intently.

“I thought you were unaware of the slip.” Sherlock informed him, stabbing a piece of bacon.

“I guess I was” John agreed.

“But it felt right” Sherlock deuced, narrowing his eyes slightly.

“Yes.” John sounded hesitant.

They ate in silence for a few moment, Sherlock picked up his glass and took a sip of his wine, as he placed the glass back on the table he said simply, “You can continue.”

“I can.”

“Don’t be dense John” Sherlock effectively broke the moment, “you are an important figure in Maeve’s life and can continue to refer to yourself as one, and…you are very dear to me.”

“Yes” John smiled smugly, he knew that Sherlock was out of his depth when it came to emotions and was trying.

“I want…if you want” Sherlock struggled with his words “if you wish to continue referring to yourself as Maeve’s ‘papa’ then I would not be adverse…”

“It’s just, she’s your daughter…I don’t want to step on your toes.” John admitted.

Sherlock rolled his eyes, “you’re hardly stepping on toes John, you are a welcome part of both of our lives and we will continue to treat you as such, I want you to be part of her life, John.”

John nodded quickly. “Thank you.”

“No, thank you John.”

Maeve gurgled and Sherlock closed his eyes for a moment. John chuckled, “she does like to be the centre of attention.”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, leaning over the pram and whispered to her. “You have to have all the attention.”

“All of Daddy’s attention” John corrected.

“Yes, my little Maeve must have Daddy’s attention all the time” he smiled, mocking annoyance at her.

 

* * *

 

“I’m afraid that I must cancel my visit” Mycroft informed him.

Sherlock shifted Maeve slightly so that she was resting comfortably against him, head tucked into his collarbone as she started to drift back into sleep. He held the phone with his free hand. “Unavoidable?”

“Completely,” Mycroft agreed, sounding tense. “I’m on my way to the airport.”

“Reschedule?” Sherlock asked, hopefully. He hated to admit it but his brother’s help was appreciated and he wanted her to be part of her life.

“The moment I return I will visit” Mycroft promised.

“Till then” Sherlock said in farewell.

 


	26. Thirty-Two Days Old

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock has his stitches taken out and visits Molly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally a chapter, it seems like ages has pasted since I posted. I wrote this while on holiday but have been super busy with moving into my new house and the start of uni but it is here at last, I hope it meets expectations and as consolation, I have planned a lot more chapters. This is only the beginning.

**Chapter Twenty-Six: Thirty-Two Days Old**

"Take off your shirt," John commanded.  
"If you wanted to undress me John," Sherlock raised an eyebrow, "all you had to do was ask."  
John rolled his eyes and responded, voice steady. "Shirt off and onto the table."  
They were in John's office, a small plain room like most doctor surgeries that had a sturdy desk in front of the window, his desk chair pushed back from where he'd got up to collect the detective and his baby from the waiting area. Sherlock was stood beside the uncomfortable looking examination table and Maeve's pram left in the centre of the room with Maeve's inside, kicking and gurgling noisily.   
Sherlock looked as though he was going to protest but started unbuttoning his shirt, scoffing playfully, "your bedside manner is atrocious."   
"Maeve doesn't think so" John told him as he picked up the squirming baby from her pram and brought her close to his chest.  
Sherlock watched them as he folded his shirt over the handle of the pram and hopped elegantly onto the examination table. He frowned at the blonde, "Maeve is hardly capable of expressing her opinion on the matter."   
"She's smiling" John informed him, smugly. He turned his body to show Sherlock his daughter, smiling against his shoulder.  
Sherlock's frown deepened, "that has little to do with your bedside manner and more the fact that you've showed her some attention."  
"Poor thing" John cooed, "starved for attention from your genius father and his partner, what are we going to do?"   
"Hilarious John" Sherlock announced though his tone suggested it was nothing of the sort. "She's four weeks old, she has gas."  
"Anyone would think you're in a hurry" Sherlock glared at him. John continued, thoughtfully "anyone would think that you had something better to do?"  
"John" Sherlock broke through his lightheartedness, tone severe and grey eyes like a storm. He watched Maeve entertain herself with the collar of John's shirt and softened his tone slightly, going as far as feigning politeness, something that didn't come naturally to the consulting detective. "If you wouldn't mind removing my stitches, it would be much appreciated."   
"That's better" John declared.   
The doctor placed Maeve on the table beside Sherlock, ignoring the displeased grumble she released and focused on Sherlock. The consulting detective had already offered his hand to Maeve to pacify her and she was exploring his long fingers in her own small hands. John hunched over, level with Sherlock's torso and examined the area visually as he pulled on a pair of gloved. He peeled the bandage stuck over the wound, he had been checking it regularly and enforcing that Sherlock keep it clean with new bandages daily. The wound was clean, still an angry red and the stitches dark against his pale skin.   
"This looks good" John said out loud, more out of habit than anything else. Sherlock understood wounds unlike his usual patients that he would have to keep informed on every detail.   
"I do live with a doctor," Sherlock sighed, bored.   
"He must be very good and have the patience of a saint." John continued playfully, completely in doctor mode as he ran his fingers gently over the area around the wound.   
Sherlock smirked, "something like that."   
"I'll just take these out then" John told him, he pulled over a small leather stool and a table lain with the required instruments,   
"Finally" Sherlock breathed to himself, he smiled at Maeve as she continued to explore his much larger hands, unaware of exactly what was happening in the room.   
"This will pinch" he told him.  
Sherlock nodded, "not my first time."  
"Not a virgin anymore" John joked.  
"Hardly" Sherlock scoffed, he nodded his head towards Maeve. The evidence that he was not only not a virgin but a fully functioning human being, something that others had doubted for so long.  
Josh started, delicately snipping the strong thread. "She might not be yours, for all I know you just picked her up and claimed she was yours."  
"The evidence?" He asked, voice clipped as John pulled the stitched free one by one and placed them in a metal dish. Though, it was obvious he was not discouraging the useless banter.   
"Fabricated." John's blue eye flicked up to Sherlock, "your bother does 'occupy a minor position in the british government' he would have helped you."   
"You have the whole thing figured out," Sherlock nodded, continuing with the joke. John was attempting to distract him, how pedestrian, but better to go along with it than upset him.   
"I don't know if I told your but my boyfriends a detective, I've picked up a thing or two."  
"You have missed out one crucial detail though."   
"What?" John fund shed the procedure and placed the instruments back on the table.   
"The similarities between us." Sherlock said in his 'you can be completely dense sometimes' voice.  
"Yes, I'm not sure that I can explain that one." The ex-army doctor admitted, "done."   
Sherlock took his hand away from Maeve, she frowned at him, displeased by the action and he stopped her up, one hand cradling her head and the other under her body. He pulled her close so that she was looking over his shoulder, pressed into his bare chest. She burped loudly at the sudden movement.   
"Lovely," Sherlock rolled his eyes before fixing his gaze on John, raising an eyebrow minutely in an 'I told you so' way,   
John peeled off his gloves and placed them in the small tray along with the discarded stitches, he pushed the table away and wheeled his stool closer to the pair so that he was slotted between the lanky detectives legs. His blue eyes looking up at his partner and the baby that was seemingly attached to him most of the time, he asked "Want me to check her over?"  
Sherlock gave a curt nod and craned his neck to look at her, Maeve was looking over his shoulder at the plain wall rather uninterested. He moved her away from his body so that she was no longer pressed against him but supported in his strong hands in the air. She blinked rapidly, sapphire eyes flicking around the room.   
"Her eyes will start to settle soon," John remarked conversationally, he did not specialise in babies but had brushed up on the training he received at med school soon after the arrival of little Maeve. Though he hadn't crammed it all in the same night as discovering her like Sherlock.   
Sherlock hummed thoughtfully, giving nothing away. John knew he would be thinking about this and anything to do with Maeve in great detail everyday.   
"Do you think she'll have your eyes?" John asked conversationally. Sherlock had beautiful eyes, a deep and unnerving blue with green pools like a lagoon, shimmering different shades in the light and a ring of gold around the pupil, a singular dot of brown in the right eye.   
"It is hereditary" Sherlock told him.   
"Mycroft has it as well?" John asked.  
"A milder form but yes," Sherlock answered, "we inherit it from my father."   
"And she'll inherit it from you?"  
"It is a possibility" Sherlock mused out loud.   
John got to his feet, pushing the stool back and outstretched his arms, "may I?"  
In response Sherlock held Maeve out further in offering to the doctor, John secured his grasp on her under her arm pits and brought her close to his body, repositioning her with little difficulty to be lain flat on her back on both of his arms, looking up at him. He told Sherlock, "I'm just going to weight her and then check her over."   
Sherlock hopped off the table, retrieving his shirt and put it on. He began on the buttons as John weighed her, being sure to try and keep her occupied as he did so. Sherlock stepped over to join him the moment he was finishing on the last button, John announced "8lbs 7oz"  
"That's normal?" Sherlock sounded a little unsure, a question instead of his usual confident statements.  
"Perfect, it's a little under the usual but she was a lot smaller than the other babies I've encountered."  
"6lbs 10oz" Sherlock reminded him.  
"She's put on just under two pounds" John looked happy, "that's exactly what we're looking for at this stage of her development. 1-2lbs per month in the first six months."   
Sherlock released the breath he hadn't known that he'd been holding, if John had heard he didn't let on. The ex-army doctor picked her up and placed her back on the examination table, he unbuttoned her baby grow and ran his hands over her pale flesh. "Skin looks good, no signs of bruising or underlying skin conditions, she's still retaining her pink colouring which is good, means the bloods pumping correctly."  
"Bruises?" Sherlock asked, voice hoarse.  
"With some conditions bruising is a tell-tale symptom" he informed him, looking up at the taller man for a brief second before continuing to look over Maeve, "I wasn't checking for signs of abuse."   
"I know" Sherlock responded, tone clipped and eyes severe.   
"I know you would never hurt her" John continued.  
"John.."  
"It's a routine part of the checkup."  
"Stop, John" Sherlock spoke a little louder than necessary to get the blonde to stop taking " I believe the saying is...you're digging yourself a hole."  
John managed a small smile in response as he got back to looking over the small infant.   
"I'll check her eyes, ears and her heart for any abnormalities." John instructed him on the next steps he'd be taking. Sherlock gave a silent nod and John continued with the examination.   
He picked up a small torch and shone it into Maeve's eyes, she widened her eyes in response and quickly shut them, moving her head to the side and away from the onslaught on light as he face scrunched up in displeasure.   
Sherlock huffed a small laugh that sounded more like he was releasing a large breath in amusement.   
"That's fine" John declared with a smile. He proceeded to check her ears, which were fine then retrieved his stethoscope, he warmed it in his hand before placing it on her bare chest, just above her tiny pink nipple. She reached for it and ended up grabbing John's hands and resting them there as he listened to her heartbeat for a moment. "Sounds good."  
Sherlock silently reached for Maeve, removing her hand from John's so that he could move the stethoscope away and the detective could re-button her baby grow. She squirmed but let him with little trouble.   
John had backed away from the table to allow Sherlock more access, he sat at his desk and tapped at the keyboard, inserting the relevant medical data for Sherlock and Maeve to update their files. He looked away from the screen for a moment, Sherlock was hunched over the table looking long and delicate. "Do you want me to book her in for her vaccinations?"   
"Yes."   
"July 1st?" John asked, eyes on the screen. "Eleven thirty-five?"  
"Fine." Sherlock responded simply as he picked up Maeve, holding her for short moment and kissing the top of her head, before putting he into her pram. She protested but he ignored it, shushing her and putting the blanket on her, she kicked it in rebellion and he gave up, instead stroking the sides of her face in the hopes of soothing her.  
"So..." John said, he finished typing and looked up at Sherlock who was stood looming over him with his hand inside the pram, "lunch?"   
 

* * *

 

  
Lunch consisted of a sandwich from a cafe down the road, a tea for John and coffee for Sherlock. They strolled through the park with disposable cups in their hands, John a little out of pace and Sherlock with one trained hand on he handle of the pram, manoeuvring it through the people as they walked. There was very little peace in London, the city was packed full of life and bustling with all kinds of people that worked in the city or were just visiting as tourists. The capital was never a quiet place, except at night and in the mornings but it struck John as odd how well Sherlock had adapted to include a baby into his routine.  
The consulting detective moved and acted with practised ease in every aspect of life, including with baby Maeve in toll, he was still capable of running around and weaving through the cIty. The inclusion of Maeve changed very little in terms for Sherlock, he'd adapted his routine to care more about another person though having a child was the easiest thing in the world. Sherlock and Maeve were inseparable.   
Sherlock paused for a moment to dispose of his coffee and carried on walking, John watched his stretch towards the bin and toss the cup while keeping his hand firmly on the pram and eyes on Maeve at all times.   
"You're thinking absurdly loud John" Sherlock declared, not looking up from Maeve as they continued to walk, finding a quiet part of the park that had fewer people rushing through it and the occasional person moving down the path or sitting on a bench with some lunch on their lap.   
"Sorry" John apologised, though he wasn't sure why he had, should one apologise for thinking?  
"Just say it," Sherlock snapped, "you want to say something, just say it."  
"I just wanted to say that I'm proud of you," John informed him, nervously, like he wasn't sure of what he was saying anymore.  
"Proud?" Sherlock repeated questioningly, he raised one dark eyebrow as his eyes flicked curiously over John, "I wasn't aware that one was susceptible to feelings of pride in relation to their partners."   
John frowned, "it's normal to be proud of someone Sherlock, no matter if it's your child, sibling or partner."   
Sherlock eyes narrowed in way that John knew meant 'fascinating', he often had this look when finding out new data. "So you're proud of me because of..." His eyes flicked to Maeve "how well I've adapted to having Maeve in my life."  
John was always amazed by how Sherlock could practically read his mind, he corrected "I'm proud of the way you've adapted her into your lifestyle, you haven't changed because of her only extended the love you have to her."   
"Right." Sherlock said, over pronouncing the 't' for emphasis. He was still unsure, as he often was with human nature.   
"I love you."  
Sherlock looked rather out of depth, like a deer caught in the headlights and mumbled, "yes, I share similar sentiments to you, John."  
The blonde laughed and stopped walking, "you can't even say it back, you complete and utter cock."  
Sherlock paused and swung the buggy round so that he could face John with Maeve resting beside him, snoring away. They had reached a quiet part of the park, nobody could overhear their conversation. He kept one hand on the buggy as he stopped in front of John with hardly any gap between them, he looked down at the ex-army doctor. His eyes were like a cloudy sky before a storm, silver and grey streaked blue. They were open and vulnerable, not a look one was used to seeing from Sherlock Holmes.  
He spoke, keeping his voice low and gentle, "I do, that is I can say it."  
John raised an eyebrow challengingly, he was more amused with the sudden turn around than annoyed, he knew exactly what he was getting himself into when he and Sherlock got together.  
Sherlock cleared his throat. "I do love you John Watson."  
"Yes." John urged gently.  
"It is not a sentiment that I am used to expressing, I have never loved another like this, until you." Sherlock admitted, his cheeks turning a brilliant shade of light pink.  
John didn't comment on it even if he wanted to instead he said, "never?"   
Sherlock shook his head, embarrassed and look at the ground. "I thought that I loved someone before but now I know that that wasn't love."   
"How?" John asked curiously.  
"Because of you John." Sherlock told him, tone completely serious as he looked up and fixed the blonde with his stormy eyes.   
"That may be the most romantic thing you've ever said to me" John affirmed  
Sherlock stared at him for a moment, a small gurgling cough took his attention to Maeve and he announced. "She's just been sick."  
Maeve was lain on her back, eyes opening prematurely and sick trailing down her mouth. The consulting detective reached into the pram and pulled Maeve into a sitting position and grabbed the muslin from beside her before pulling her out and towards him, using the muslin to shield himself from the mess.  
"That's less romantic," John said with no real bite, instead he lent forward to check on Maeve, she coughed and he put his finger into her mouth to retrieve any of the sick still in her throat. When it was clear he removed his finger, now covered in milky baby sick, "lovely."  
Sherlock retrieved a pack of wipes with one hand and offered them to John.   
"It's perfectly normal for babies to be sick." John told him, fixing the dark haired man with a firm look that was also reassuring.  
"I know," Sherlock snapped, "I have shirts that can attest to that."  
"And that cardigan Mrs Hudson knitted" John added solemnly. Their landlady had knitted Maeve a light pink cardigan which she had worn only once (because of John's insistence) and thrown up on.  
Sherlock smirked, he hated the cardigan, it was knitted and pink, he hated the colour pink, even in light shades. He said unconvincingly, "that was a shame."  
John gave him a look that said 'you're older you should know better' as he wiped his finger clean and threw the dirtied wipe into the nearby bin, then he offered one to Sherlock. He accepted it and dabbed gently at Maeve's face until she was clean, leaving her mouth to last and taking his time to wipe at the small lips until he was satisfied.   
"That's better," Sherlock said, voice soft as he talked to Maeve. She was fighting the urge to fall back asleep, rudely awoken by her own being sick.   
"I should be getting back to work."  
"Already?" Sherlock asked, it was still early and John had plenty of time.  
John smirked and answered, "the quicker I finish, the quicker I can come home."   
"Is that so?" Sherlock raised an eyebrow at the blonde, stormy eyes flicking to Maeve as she settled back down to sleep against his shoulder and then back at John, the blonde was still smiling smugly.   
"Yes," John sighed, he lent forward and kissed the taller man quickly on the lips.   
John moved backward but Sherlock followed eagerly and kissed him again, chastely. His lips lingering for a moment, he placed a kiss on the corner of John's mouth and revelled in the pleased sigh that escaped the blonde, he drew back and stood tall, satisfied.  
"You're a bastard," John declared.  
"No, my parents were married at the time of my conception." Sherlock responded, sure of himself.  
John rolled his eyes and ran his hand over Maeve's head, he kissed the back of her head and backed away, calling out to Sherlock "I'll be home at five. Be good."  
"Shouldn't you be saying that to her?" Sherlock asked curiously, gesturing to Maeve as the blonde backed away.  
"You're more likely to get into trouble" John chuckled.   
Sherlock watched John's retreating form for a moment before he sighed to himself and looked down at Maeve, he asked her "what are we going to do now?"   
Maeve released a soft snore in answer.  
"Sleep, good idea." Sherlock agreed.   
His phone buzzed and he fished it effortlessly out of his pocket with only one hand, the phone blinked 'message from Molly Hooper'. He opened it and sighed, looking at Maeve sympathetically though she just continued to sleep.  
"Change of plans, my little terror."

 

* * *

  
  
The body was that of a middle aged man, overweight and killed of a heart attack, sudden and out of the blue like most heart attacks but the position of the body had caused a suspicious death alert that had Molly investigating and now, Sherlock leant down over the body his eyes glittering in delight.   
"She been good?" Molly asked conversationally.   
Sherlock huffed a breath and glanced over to the pram by the doors, Maeve was sleeping soundly and completely unaware of the scene change. Molly Hooper was lingering between the body and the pram, trying to keep an eye on him while watching Maeve sleep. She was wearing a hideous oatmeal cardigan with flowers and cut off chinos, her dark blonde hair typed back in a plait that was hooked over one shoulder.  
"Fine" Sherlock informed her, eyes flicking back to the body.   
"And you've had your stitches out?" She continued.  
"Earlier today, yes." His voice was clipped.  
The mousy blonde smiled and stepped closer to the pram, peering it at Maeve with a expression of awe and amazement, Sherlock glanced up to watch her in interest. It was far more interesting than the body at least, Molly spoke aloud, "she really is something special."  
Sherlock snapped off his gloves, something he only wore for the sake of Maeve and strode towards the pathologist and his daughter, he spoke with a serious tone, "you're broody."  
"I'm not" she defended weakly, "it's just..."  
Sherlock finished for her, "you're biologically wired to think about babies and seeing a baby brings out that response in you. Many women are attracted to men with babies because it makes them seem more accessible, it has happened to me since the arrival of Maeve and is considered a natural response."   
"I don't want children, yet." Molly informed him, voice seeming quiet and unconvincing in comparison to his.  
Sherlock frowned and he guessed, "have I said something to offend you?"   
"No," the blonde managed a weak smile, "you're right, seeing her makes me wonder when I'll have children and I know that it's perfectly natural."  
"Babies aren't easy" Sherlock informed her, trying to remedy the situation. "In Fact my life has become far more complicated since her arrival, she requires constant attention, none of which I could give her without the flexibility of my chosen profession."   
"Yeah," Molly sighed, she looked down at Maeve and asked, "but isn't she worth it?"  
Sherlock looked offended by the question, brow furrowing and nose wrinkling slightly in an undignified manner. He answered honestly, "yes, there is never a time when not having her seems an option anymore, there are things that I would have done differently but I would not change having her in my life, not for one moment."   
Molly looked up at him and smiled, "and that Sherlock Holmes has turned you into a great man."   
Sherlock returned the smile, "there's a fault in his pacemaker which brought on the heart attack, check with the manufacturers, there may be more like this."  

* * *

 

  
When John stepped into the living room after work he wasn't sure what to expect, Sherlock sat upside down on the sofa or doing an expedient with Maeve, he was used to all sorts living sigh the consulting detective but what he didn't expect was Molly Hooper to be sitting on sofa unloading a cardboard tray of Chinese food onto the coffee table, which was clean.  
"Hey Molly" he greeted with a friendly smile.  
The mousy blonde looked up at him with a wide smile, that was a little nervous and twinkling eyes, she continued to take out the containers of Chinese food and place them on the table. "Sherlock invited me, I hope you don't mind."  
"I don't mind at all," John assured her, shedding his cardigan so that he was left in only his jeans and a light checked shirt. He glanced around the quiet flat, and asked her "where is Sherlock?"   
"Present" Sherlock called out from further in the flat like a child hearing their name in the register, he appeared around the corner with Maeve on his hip, supported by a long arm and holding onto his shirt. She was wearing a new baby grow that was pale yellow with small teddy bears. Her eyes fixed onto John and she opened her mouth widely in excitement.   
"Hello sweetheart" John greeted her, voice soft and full of affection. He reached out and took her from the consulting detective, lifting her high above his head, she reached for him with small hands.   
"Where is my greeting?" Sherlock asked.   
John rolled his eyes and lent over to give Sherlock a chaste kiss, Maeve whined loudly in protest and he lowered her down to rest on his shoulder, her face in his neck. He looked at Sherlock, "You are a child."   
"I brought Chinese food" Sherlock informed him swiftly changing the subject and taking a seat on the sofa, leaving a reasonable gap between him and Molly. He then repositioned Maeve's chair to be by his feet, "and invited Molly."  
"I text him about a body and he ended up spending the afternoon," Molly informed him as she placed the last of the Chinese food on the table.   
"I was in the mood for Chinese," Sherlock added nonchalant, crossing one leg over the other.  
John bounced Maeve up and down gently and whispered to her, "did Daddy take you to the morgue to visit Molly?"   
"She can sit in her chair John, while we eat." Sherlock told him, eyes flicking to the bouncy beige be chair they often sat Maeve in and then, back to the blonde. It wasn't a suggestion.  
"She eaten?" John asked, crouching down and strapping Maeve into her chair.  
"Yes" Sherlock nodded keeping his gaze on John, "she was sick all over herself afterwards."  
"Then she'll be needing a bath tonight." John said in a matter of fact way. He sat down on the floor, on the opposite side of the table to Sherlock and Molly, and reached to grab a container of dumplings and chopsticks.   
Sherlock hummed and retrieved a container of crispy shredded spicy beef, he opened it, grabbed a piece using his chopsticks with practised ease and popped it into his mouth. His eyes were back on Maeve, expression soft as he watched her intently.   
"So, the body?" John asked. 

* * *

 

  
"It's amazing," Molly whispered to John.  
They were both sat on the sofa watching Sherlock, he was stood in the centre of the room holding Maeve close to his chest and bouncing her up and down in small reassuring movements as she dozed against his shoulder, so close to sleep.  
"Yep," John agreed, popping the 'p'. "He really has got a knack for it."   
"I can hear you," Sherlock informed them, arching an eyebrow at them in the mirror. His voice was low as not to disturb Maeve.  
"Do you want me to take her to bed?" John asked.  
Sherlock shook his head, "I'll take her once she's fully asleep."   
John nodded in understanding.   
Molly watched, completely in awe as Sherlock sat down in his armchair keeping Maeve close to his body. She barely cracked open an eyelid. 

  

* * *

 

 

“When did we get this?” John asked, holding up a silver picture frame with a photograph of Maeve in it.

Sherlock looked up from where he was sat on the sofa, he was sat with one leg crossed elegantly over the other and a freshly cleaned Maeve on his lap wearing a dressing gown; one that John had gotten her, it was light pink with eyes and a fin to look like a shark. Sherlock had protested against it but she looked adorable wearing it. The consulting detective’s eyes flicked to him but his attention remained on Maeve, holding the bottle in his hand firmly as she suckled from it enthusiastically.

“Mycroft sent it over” Sherlock replied, nonchalant.

“When did he take it?” John asked, brows furrowed in confusion.

The dark haired man sighed, “It was taken the night I spent in hospital.”

“It’s a very nice photograph,” John observed.

He was right, the photograph was very nice and the first of its kind in the flat but Sherlock doubted it would be the last. It was black and white, Maeve lying on her back atop of a teal silk sheet. She was completely nude, with her knees bent and a foot covering her privates. Both of her hands were resting on her torso. Her dark hair was neat and long eyelashes resting against her rosy cheeks, pink lips pursed thoughtfully as though he was thinking hard in her sleep.

Sherlock nodded and turned his attention back to Maeve.

“What you did today, it was good.” John put the frame back on the mantel.

“With Molly?” Sherlock asked, unsure.

“Yes, it was nice of you.”


	27. Thirty-Six Days Old

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everyone is worried when they finds newspapers with Sherlock and Maeve on the cover and fear that the consulting detective is gone, but really he's just taken Maeve swimming for the first time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The updates may be a bit later than usual because Sky has decided to stop our wifi, apparently they never provided that service to us and our landlord is having to sort it out, and it will not be working again till the 8th of October. I'm updating from the library but it will depend on how much work I can get done without my trusty wifi. Do keep the reviews, messages, kudos and etcetera as I can check them on my phone, it will really cheer me up to hear from you guys. 
> 
> Also, i have some cover art that I did for this fic when i started writing it and was wondering if you guys were interested in seeing it? It' s rather badly edited and completely up to you, if so i will add it to the first chapter, just let me know.

 

“Come on you” Sherlock whispered, his deep voice loud enough to be heard by the awake and kicking Maeve but quiet enough not to wake John. He lent over the Moses Basket and scooped her up in a fluid movement, placing her against his strong chest as he cast a glance at John, the blonde had stirred but was snoring softly against his pillow, a patch of drool forming under his open mouth.

The consulting detective picked up the two bags he had prepared as he exited the room, the purple ‘baby bag’ and a larger black leather bag. He closed the door behind him and walked down the hallway, pausing at the table to place the bags upon it before moving into the living room. He dedicated his free arm to holding Maeve also, using one arm to support her bottom so that she was sitting on his forearm and his other hand across her small back. Maeve’s chin was resting on his shoulder and she was looking behind him, growling loudly so that her body vibrated against his.

Sherlock snorted in amusement and craned his neck to get a better look at her, “amusing yourself?”

Maeve only growled again.

He rolled his eyes and shifted his focus to the desk, it was normally covered in papers but this morning was different, the papers that littered both sides of the desk were all this morning’s editions and he was plastered all over the front page. Well, he and Maeve were. Luckily, the reporters had only captured pictures of him with the pram or holding Maeve, her back towards the cameras and face hidden completely from view. They were pictures from yesterday after John had left him in the park and he made his way to visit Molly.

“I’ll be more careful this time,” he told her, placing a lingering kiss to her forehead “I promise, Daddy promises.”

 

* * *

 

 

“Is this your first time?” A woman asked, her voice overly cheery.

Sherlock looked up at the doorway where a young woman was holding the door open, she had blonde hair and dark circles beneath her brown eyes. In her arms was a baby boy with fine blonde hair that looked almost non-existent and a large bag not unlike his own.

“That obvious?” Sherlock asked, raising an eyebrow at the blonde woman as he ducked through the doorway and she followed.

“I’ve been coming for a few weeks now and haven’t seen you before.” She explained, stepping into pace beside him as they walked through the pool changing room towards the family area.

“You’re right it’s our first time” Sherlock confirmed, “We’ve been busy.”

 “I’m Samantha and this is Joshua” She introduced, not bothering to hold out a hand due to the baby and bags she was holding.

“Sherlock, and this is my daughter Maeve.”

“That’s a lovely name.” Samantha cooed, adding “Is your…wife not coming?”

Sherlock stopped and observed the young mother, “No fathers at this class?”

“Not much,” Samantha admitted “some sit on the side-lines.”

Sherlock raised both eyebrows and let the subject drop, he continued walking with Samantha following a step or two behind him, and he told her simply “No wife, or girlfriend, the mother is out of the picture.”

Samantha was silent for a moment, contemplating what to say next.

“It must be nice for you to be off with her, don’t you have to work?” She asked.

“My work is freelance” Sherlock informed her stopping outside an empty changing room.

Samantha stopped at the changing room opposite and nodded, “I’ll see you in the pool.”

Sherlock stepped inside the large changing room and locked the door behind himself, he exhaled loudly, dropped his bags onto the small bench and brought Maeve away from his chest to look into her slightly sleepy eyes. “We’re going to go swimming.”

Maeve blinked but remained quiet as he placed her on the plastic changing table and went about getting ready, keeping his watchful eyes on her at all times. He shimmied out of his suit, folding it carefully and placing it into the bag, he changed in a simple pair of black trunks and then got his daughter ready. She squirmed but eventually let him get her dressed with little trouble, replacing her soft tracksuit with a black and yellow striped swimming costume that closely resembled a bee.

“Ready?” He asked her with a smile.

Maeve attempted to stuff her fist into her mouth, dribble running down her chin as she gurgled around her hand.

 

* * *

  

 

The pool was serene. The only occupants a handful of women with their babies close to their bodies, a few with infants in orange swim seats and a couple with their young child. Samantha was knelt in the water close to two other mothers, chatting quietly as they tried to keep their children subverted in the water.

Sherlock was stood in the water, holding Maeve in his favoured position with her face in his neck as her blue eyes flicked over her surroundings warily, trying to focus on the smooth water, glowing as the bright light above the pool reflected off on the surface, bouncing off the blue tiles. Sherlock lowered himself into the water slowly, sure to keep his grasp on Maeve tight but not tight enough to cause her comfort.

“Daddy won’t let you go” he assured her, lips moving against her ear as he spoke in hushed tones.

He stopped when the water was to the middle of his torso and Maeve’s legs dangling in the water, he waited for her reaction before continuing, she remained silent, her eyes wide and curious. “Good?”

Sherlock continued to lower himself down until the water was reaching Maeve’s mid-torso.

Maeve kicked experimentally and squealed in delight at the resulting splash of water.

Sherlock smirked and said in disbelief, “That’s what it takes to make you happy.”

  

* * *

 

 

John woke to a dark room, curtains closed and the door shut. The empty space beside him was cold and he was suddenly aware that the flat was far too quiet, Sherlock experiment quiet or Sherlock left the flat quiet. He heaved himself out of bed into the bathroom and then checked the flat which was as suspected, empty.

“Could have left a note” John said to the empty flat.

He glanced around the living room, eyes stopping on the files of today’s papers; all plastered with photographs of Sherlock with Maeve.

“Shit” He cursed.

He was on the front page of at least seven different newspapers, a picture of him cradling Maeve protectively on his shoulder was the favourite accompanying headlines such as ‘Sherlock Holmes the doting dad spotted cradling baby daughter on a stroll through the city’. There was no name published, only that she was a baby girl and that she was born at the beginning of May. It was also lucky that they hadn’t managed to get a good shot of her, only her back and slightly curled back hair against Sherlock’s chest. The consulting detective however looked good pale skin practically glowing in the sunshine and dark curly hair, eyes severe but soft as he gazed down at his daughter.

There was no way that Sherlock hadn’t seen these…he was going to be so pissed.

And now he’d disappeared.

“Shit.” John repeated.

He rushed back into the bedroom and picked up his phone, dialling for Mycroft Holmes.

 

* * *

 

 

“Right,” Sherlock announced readjusting Maeve so that he was holding her with two hands a small space away from his body with her body submerged in the water, only her shoulders upward above the surface of the pool. “Do you trust me?”

Maeve squealed and kicked wildly in response, splashing the water around as her head dropped towards the water, watching it intently.

Sherlock started counting down quietly, “10…9…8…7…6…5…4…3…2…”

He skipped one and dunked her under the water, the same way he’d read about before coming to the pool. He followed her under, sure to keep his eyes open to watch her completely submerged for the first time despite the irritation of chlorine.

It was breath-taking, the way she held her breath automatically and watched him underneath the water, her little hairs sticking up in the water. He stayed only a second or two under before re-surfacing and brining her straight to rest on his now wet chest. She blinked rapidly, chlorine irritating her small eyes but remained silent, heavily breathing against him. Sherlock couldn’t help smiling.

“That’s enough for today” he told her, leaning down to kiss the top of the head and tasting chlorine.

  

* * *

 

 

“What’s the emergency?” Greg asked as he bustled into the living room of 221B Baker Street, out of breath from running up the stairs and confronted with the shocked faces of John, Mycroft and Mrs Hudson.

Mycroft recovered faster than anyone else, a smirk playing on his usually straight lips as he regarded his partner, he picked up one of the papers from the table and presented it to the grey haired man, “It seems that the press has finally caught up with my brother.”

Greg’s eyes widened at the picture, it was of Sherlock holding Maeve protectively against his chest, a smaller picture showed him pushing the pram through the park on a mid-day walk. “Christ. And Sherlock’s seen these?”

“They were on the table when I woke up” John informed him.

“And where is he?” Greg looked round the room and through the kitchen for any signs of him.

“He left this morning” Mrs Hudson sniffled, deeply affected by the disappearance of Sherlock and baby Maeve.

Greg focused on Mycroft, “do you know where he is?”

Mycroft sighed and placed the newspaper back on the table, he crossed one leg elegantly over the over and placed both hands on his knee. He admitted, “Sherlock often alludes my surveillance, he’ll be found when he wants to be found.”

John ran his hands over his face. “But this isn’t just about him, we’ve got Maeve to consider too.”

Greg nodded in agreement and Mycroft fixed the blonde with a serious look which quickly soften and he confessed, “He’s just upset, give him some time and he’ll resurface.”

“When?” Greg asked.

“When he wants to.” There was no trace of a smile on Mycroft Holmes’ face but there was only a sliver of worry behind that mask of indifference.

 “I’ll make some tea” Mrs Hudson declared rising to her feet, John opened his mouth to protest but she shushed him, continuing “just this once though, I’m not your housekeeper.”

  

* * *

 

 

Sherlock and Maeve showered together at the pool before changing. It was a harder task that he initially thought, drying and changing both of them; making sure that Maeve was warm enough during the process and watching her intently on the changing table. When they were finished, dry except for their hair he packed up the bags, picked up his daughter and left the changing room. He paused at a full length mirror, his suit was far from perfect and would need to be changed the moment he got home, white shirt damp in places, skin pale and wet hair, now black was beginning to spring into curls around his angular face.

Maeve looked refreshed from the swim and shower, pale skin glowing a healthy pink and blue eyes bright, long dark eyelashes fluttering against her skin delicately as she caught sight of herself in the mirror. Her own hair was dark, black like his from being wet but drying quickly, the thin strands dusting her head attempting to curl but still too short.

“Come on my little terror” Sherlock smiled into the mirror.

 

* * *

 

 

“This is a lovely picture” Mrs Hudson smiled at the picture of Maeve on the mantel piece, the same one that John had questioned Sherlock about four days ago.

“Quite” Mycroft commented politely over the rim of his tea cup.

“Did he do this often?” John asked placing his tea cup back onto the tray and picking up one of Mrs Hudson’s cakes with a soft smile in her direction before he focused back on Mycroft, he clarified, “Sherlock, did he disappear much as a kid?”

“My brother has always been dramatic John.” Mycroft responded. “He disappeared a few times as a child when he was angry or upset.”

“But he always turned up?”

“When he felt better, yes.”

“I’m sure there’s nothing to worry about then.” John decided with a nod of his head.

 

* * *

 

 

The cab pulled up at Baker Street and Sherlock handed the driver a wad of notes. He unbuckled the car seat and lifted it out of the cab as the driver took the pram from the boot and put it up with little difficulty.

“I’ve got a youngen’ at home” he gave in answer to the silent question as Sherlock attached Maeve’s carseat to the buggy and hooked one bag over the handle and the other over his shoulder. He nodded to the cabbie and manoeuvred himself up the stairs, lifting the buggy more than pushing it to the front door.

When he managed to get inside he parked the buggy in the hallway and unstrapped Maeve, he positioned her on his shoulder and ascended the stairs.

“Where the bloody hell have you been?” John asked, stood at the top of the stairs with his arms crossed over his chest.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow at him, “I took my daughter out. I was unaware that I required your permission.”

John stepped aside to allow Sherlock access to the flat and followed the taller man into the living room, he stopped for a moment to place the baby bag beside the sofa and took a seat on the sofa, Greg and Mycroft in the armchairs watched him intently.

“Not permission…” John responded.

“Oh, Sherlock, we’ve been so worried about you.” Mrs Hudson interrupted, voice high and full of concern.

John continued with a polite smile to their landlady, “It would just be nice to know where you are.”

Sherlock observed the blonde, the worry and concern were practically pouring off him. He deduced, “this is about the newspapers.”

“Well…” John started, unsure.

“You’re plastered over the front cover of every newspaper” Greg exclaimed.

“It’s hardly about me” Sherlock dismissed. Yes, the newspapers had annoyed him, he was a consulting detective and hardly needed a public image but the fact it was about his daughter annoyed him more, she was hardly newsworthy and wanted privacy.

“Apparently people want to see Sherlock Holmes the father.” The grey haired man said.

“We went swimming” He changed the subject and was met with blank faces, “you wanted to know where we went, I took Maeve swimming, I would have done so earlier but I wasn’t allowed to get my stitches wet.”

“You went swimming?” John asked in disbelief, “You woke up, saw these newspapers and decided to take Maeve swimming.”

“Precisely” Sherlock articulated with a quick fake smile.

“Did she enjoy it?” The blonde continued.

“Immensely” He admitted looking down at his daughter fondly, she was just starting to drop off against him, tired out by their activities.

“I’ll be leaving then” Greg announced, pushing himself to his feet.

Mycroft rose to his feet a moment later, “I’ll accompany you.”

“Bye.” Greg said quickly and went towards the door as Mycroft gave a silent nod and moved towards Sherlock to get a better look at his niece, he ran his large hand over her head, and lent down to place a soft kiss at the back of her skull. Sherlock’s brows raised slightly in surprise but he didn’t say anything as Mycroft straightened up and walked down the stairs with Greg, leaving the flat in silence.

“Aw, that was nice” Mrs Hudson broke the silence, she looked at Sherlock disapprovingly “You’re too thin, I’ll get you a slice of cake, it’s your favourite.”

Sherlock smiled at his landlady’s retreating form and then turned to John, the blondes face still sterner than he would like. John pointed at him, “text or leave a note next time, I was worried sick.”

Sherlock reclined slightly on the sofa and tipped his head back, “You worry too much.”

 


	28. Thirty-Eight Days Old

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft comes for his Wednesday visit, they have a frank talk about the safety of Maeve and she smiles back at Mycroft for the first time, it annoys the hell out of Sherlock.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all your patience. My wifi is back but i am swamped with work, don't worry I'll find the time to update regularly, if I don't just remind me. 
> 
> Note for the chapter:  
> I would like to remind everyone that Mycroft is not a bad guy, he just wants what is best for his brother and now for his niece, he is not trying to hurt Sherlock and I don’t want him to be hated for his harsh truths (more specifically, my writing of him this way). Mycroft Holmes is man willing to do anything and in this case, he wants his brother to know that he’ll protect Maeve from him, even if it means taking her away.

Two days later found Sherlock scrolling through online articles with one hand moving the page down and the other clutched by his sleeping daughter, she held onto two of his long fingers with small fists as she snored in her chair. Sherlock had positioned her bouncy chair on his armchair and turned it to face the desk, she was fast asleep with her rosy lips parted. Sherlock dressed in a pair of pyjamas and a dressing gown, the shirt inside out and his feet covered by a pair of socks. Maeve was similarly dressed in one of her sleepsuits, a pale grey with thin white stripes horizontal across her body, it covered her entire body, arms and legs, even her feet.

Sherlock found himself glancing at his daughter more than occasionally, eyes flicking to the infant to check that she was still asleep and not in any discomfort. He could tell by his hand resting on her torso that her breathing was even and unlaboured, and hear each tiny breath.

Mrs Hudson bustled in, looked around the room and then settled her gaze on Sherlock and frowned, “really, Sherlock, the mess you’ve made.”

“It’s hardly my mess” Sherlock’s pale eyes flicked to his landlady then back to the screen.

“Don’t you blame your daughter for your mess,” she scolded and went about picking up the stuffed toys littering the floor.

“Well, they are her possessions.” Sherlock grumbled and shut the laptop with his free hand.

“Is your brother coming for tea?” Mrs Hudson asked. She arranged the stuffed toys on the sofa and then set about cleaning the coffee table, the surface of which was covered with papers, books, muslins, bottles and a few toys.

“For his afternoon visit with Maeve” he corrected.

“I better make tea then” she declared.

“Is there any cake?” Sherlock asked hopefully, she’d made his favourite two days ago and hadn’t yet eaten today.

“You finished it all,” she told him with a raised eyebrow as she organised the living room for him, “but I just put another one of your favourites in the oven.”

“White chocolate and raspberry brownies?” He asked hopefully.

She didn’t answer, only looked up with a knowing look and took the empty bottles into the kitchen to be cleaned. She called back, “are you going to get dressed today?”

“What for?” He called back.

Maeve stirred at the sound of his voice and Sherlock cursed under his breath, he manoeuvred his chair closer to the armchair that he’d set Maeve up on, she tightened her grip on his fingers and her eyes opened into little slits.

“Shhh” Sherlock hushed and stood up, he unstrapped her from the bouncy chair; scooped her up, holding her with one arm and moved the bouncy chair with the other, and he placed it on the floor. He then positioned her in both of his arms, forearm under her bum and other hand on her back.

Maeve yawned against the underside of his jaw, dribble smearing across his skin as rosy lips dragged across his stubbly cheek and she settled back to sleep against him. He had yet to shave today. It was a ‘lazy’ day or more specifically, a dull day, nothing to keep him and Maeve entertained and no cases to work. Not that Lestrade would call him for anything under a seven or even understood the rating system of cases, not with the newspapers so interested in him and his daughter.     

Maeve was due to wake soon for a feed but was dozing off again as Sherlock rocked his body from side to side in small movements. He could afford to let her sleep for a little while longer.

The door opened and closed, a paused and then practised steps on the stairs. Mycroft then, the faint tap of his umbrella against wood was a dead giveaway and Sherlock could hear his brother approaching from 100 metres, his steps were heavy but practised and quiet. The elder Holmes stopped in the doorway, today he was dressed in a simple grey suit with a pale blue shirt and darker shade tie. He stepped into the room, eyes flicking over the messy room before settling on his brother and niece.

“Will she be waking soon?” Mycroft asked as he took a seat in John’s armchair, crossing one leg over the other and looking up at the consulting detective.

“It’s not a precise art” Sherlock snapped, people seemed to think he was able to deduce his daughter’s sleeping habits, which he was to an extent, but, a number of factors could wake her or keep her sleeping longer.

Mycroft raised an eyebrow, disappointment and a challenge in the one gesture.

“She should be waking any moment but woke early from her last sleep, she’ll soon wake up when it’s time for her bottle.” Sherlock told him, rising to the challenge while emphasising that she was not exactly accommodating.

“I can return later, if convenient” Mycroft offered.

“No, you missed last week and she’ll wake up soon.” Sherlock said quickly, it was important that Mycroft spent time with her.

“Do you always sleep with her in your arms?” Mycroft changed the subject with an amused smirk.

“Hardly” Sherlock scoffed.

“Are you planning on joining us?” Mycroft asked, serious again.

“Why?” Sherlock asked, narrowing his eyes at his brother, “want me gone?”

“Hardly” The auburn haired man repeated his brother’s words.

“I’m have no inclination to leave to flat,” Sherlock admitted, “but you’ll hardly notice me.”

Mycroft raised his eyebrow in a look that spoke volumes of ‘I very much doubt that’ and Sherlock rolled his eyes in response, he stepped through the obstacle created by his chair and handed Maeve to his brother. Mycroft took her with a practised ease that annoyed him and put her in the exact position she had been on Sherlock’s shoulder, she sniffed and grasped at the shoulder of his suit before settling down.

“I’ll prepare you a bottle” Sherlock said and flounced off into the kitchen.

“John at work?” Mycroft asked.

Sherlock poked his head round the corner and glared at the back of his brother’s head, “like you don’t already know.”

“I’m just making conversation Sherlock.”

“Yes,” he called back, ducking into the kitchen for a moment before striding back into the lounge with a bottle and bottle warmer in hand, “why?”

“Isn’t that what people do?” Mycroft asked, knowing the answer, “Talk?”

“But we don’t” Sherlock frowned at him, he placed the items on the coffee table and then moved his chair back to its original positioned and dropped into it, facing his brother as he steepled his hands beneath his chin.

“Perhaps we should start” The minor government official suggested.

“We deduce” Sherlock articulated as he stared at his brother, “that’s all we know how to do.”

“Speak for yourself” Mycroft pronounced each word delicately.

Sherlock scoffed, “you are far better at pretending but I have no need to pretend.”

“No, you don’t” Mycroft smirked knowingly and Sherlock scowled at him, “you’re involved.”

“No I’m not.” Sherlock snapped.

The elder Holmes raised his eyebrows in a fashion that meant he wanted his younger brother to elaborate and then flicked his eyes to the infant on his shoulder, Sherlock noticed the look and followed it. Mycroft sighed, “you are now a father and in a committed relationship, if that isn’t involved...”

Sherlock interrupted, blurting out, “What about you? You have Lestrade and he has children, four of them.”

“Three” Mycroft corrected with a slight wince.

“And his ex-wife, you are just as involved as I am.” Sherlock spat out.

“That may be so,” Mycroft conceded with a small nod to his brother, “but you’ve never been good at being involved.”

Sherlock looked offended at the accusation.

Mycroft continued thoughtfully, “Remember Redbeard.”

Sherlock scowled at him and spoke through gritted teeth, “I’m not a child anymore.”

“No, you are not” Mycroft agreed, “but you need to be careful, you have a weakness and people will notice and use it against you. They already have.”

“I wouldn’t let them” Sherlock told him, voice sounding strong but broken, like admitting it hurt him more than he could articulate.

“Neither would I.”

“Then why are we having this conversation?”

“It needs to be had,” Mycroft told him simply, “I will do everything in my power to protect Maeve, as will you.”

“I already know that.” Sherlock barked, making sure to keep his voice low.

“Even from you.” Mycroft returned.

Sherlock tensed and scowled at his brother, his tone as cold as ice, he warned “Don’t. Threaten. Me.”

“I’m making a promise” Mycroft informed him, eyes stern and voice matching his brothers at this moment.

“They would never forgive you if you took her from me,” Sherlock cautioned, his eyes were harsh but pleading.

“They would if you were a danger to her.”

“I’m not.”

“But you could be, addicts lie, remember?”

Sherlock jerked as though he had been hit and rose to his feet, “She comes first, she is everything. Do you understand? I’d never…”

“Never what?” Mycroft asked, furrowing his brow, “take drugs again? You’ve been taking them since you were fifteen and hopping from one addiction to the next; drugs, drinking, sex and now solving cases, putting your life in danger on a daily basis for the thrill of the chase.”

“No, this is different.” Sherlock shook his head, mind swimming with the onslaught of new information and shut his eyes for a moment to regain some clarity.

“It’s commitment Sherlock, the rest of your life, a life that comes before your own. It’s school runs and homework, plays, teacher conferences, sickness, nightmares, puberty, boyfriends and going to sleep some nights never knowing if your child is going to be there when you wake.” Mycroft said, each word hurting his brother and each word hard for him to say, but crucial. “This is involved, and not a threat, a promise, brother mine, I will put her first, even before you.”

The tension in the flat sat heavy in the air as Mycroft sat with Maeve looking up at his brother and Sherlock breathed deeply, fighting the urge to rip his daughter from his brother’s hands.

They were saved by the arrival of Mrs Hudson with a tea tray, she bustled in with a smile, “just this once mind you.”

“Thank you Mrs Hudson” Sherlock said quickly, voice clipped and eyes still on Mycroft, he told his brother “she needs to be fed.”

And with that he stormed from the room, down the hallway and into the bedroom, the door slammed shut.

Mrs Hudson winced at the sound, she tutted and patted Mycroft on his free shoulder, “don’t mind him, he’s in one of his moods.”

  

* * *

 

 

Sherlock returned later, he was ignoring his brother in favour of updating his website and simultaneously searching for any interesting cases in the papers. Mycroft was sat on the ground beside Maeve’s tummy time mat, she was lain on her front with toys ahead of her and stealing glances at her uncle every so often.

Though Sherlock hated it admit it, Mycroft was right, he was involved and Maeve needed protecting, even from him but he would never give her up without fight. The fat git was just interfering again.

“Come here,” Mycroft said to Maeve, his voice softer than usual.

Sherlock glanced out the corner of his eye at his brother, he has picked Maeve up and settled her to sit in his lap with his hand supporting her body and head as she stared up at him in dumb amusement.

“According to the books, you should be smiling in response to other people’s smiles by now,” the auburn haired man told her with a slightly raised eyebrow and smirk playing at the ends of his lips.

“She’s a baby,” Sherlock reminded him.

Mycroft looked up at his younger brother, it was the first time he’d spoken since their little discussion earlier and he seemed to have calmed down somewhat. He responded simply, “I know.”

Sherlock swivelled around on his chair to face the auburn haired man and placed his hands onto his knees, he raised an eyebrow, “Therefore she cannot comprehend the milestones that you have read about.”

Mycroft’s eyes widened, “I am fully aware Sherlock.”

“Just reminding you,” Sherlock pouted.

“Well, stop,” the elder Holmes glowered at him, then re-focused on Maeve with a softer expression.

“She’s close” He told him smugly, “the corners of her mouth twitch like they do before she smiles but she isn’t quite there yet, not in response to others but it’s only a matter of time.”

“Are you boys playing nice?” Mrs Hudson asked, popping her head around the door frame with a suspicious look.

Sherlock flashed a smile in her direction. “Always.”

“I’ll believe it when I see it,” she ducked back into the kitchen.

When the elder lady was out of earshot Mycroft asserted, “Stop causing trouble.”  

Sherlock mocked offence at the accusation and raised an eyebrow curiously, he countered “you were the one that came into my flat to cause trouble.”

“I came here to visit my niece” Mycroft corrected.

“And cause trouble” Sherlock added, finishing with a childish pout that made him look like a teenager.

“I was trying to help.”

“Interfere.”

“Help.”

“Threaten me.”

“Stop being childish” Mycroft scolded, bouncing Maeve up and down on his lap.

“I’m not the childish one, I’m involved” he mimicked his older brother, reciting his exact words from earlier.

Mycroft frowned at him, “you really are a child.”

Sherlock smirked at him and rose from his chair, he flopped onto the sofa dramatically, “What does that make you?”

“The responsible one” Mycroft answered, glancing over his shoulder at Sherlock and rolling his eyes as he turned back to Maeve and smiled at her, an encouraging smile.

“Beg to differ” Sherlock mumbled, turning his head into the pillow as he turned onto his side, facing outwards.

Mycroft remained stoic and continued to smile at his niece, she gurgled but didn’t return his smile, instead focusing on shoving her hand into her mouth. He commented, “She is rather like you.”

“That is rather the point” Sherlock spoke into the pillow.

“Very difficult” Mycroft continued thoughtfully.

Sherlock choked a laugh into the pillow and turned his face to look at the back of Mycroft’s head, the slightly thinning auburn hair neatly combed and pale scalp. “You make it sound like I specifically made her that way.”

“No, but she inherits it from you,” Mycroft sighed, continuing to smile at her with no response.

“And thank God that she hasn’t inherited anything from you,” Sherlock announced.

The auburn haired man ignored him in favour of focusing completely on his niece, he gently pried her hand away from her open mouth and once again smiled at her, hoping that she would smile back. Sherlock watched, craning his neck to peek over his shoulder at Maeve, she didn’t notice his presence, continuing to look at Mycroft with deep blue eyes and occasionally blink, dark eyelashes fluttering against pink skin. He watched minutely over his brother’s shoulder as the corners of her lips tugged up faintly, as though she was testing the action and the muscles it used.

“No” he whispered to himself, loud enough that only he could hear.

Maeve tested the action a few more times before following through, pink lips pulling into a smile at her uncle in response to his smile. “Good girl, you are a very good girl.”

Mycroft lifted her up to hover above his face for a moment before holding her close and turning his face to look at Sherlock, his younger brother glaring at him, seething silently, he breathed deeply through his nose.

“Do not say another word.” Sherlock warned him.

Mycroft grinned and lifted Maeve back, over his head. Sherlock took her wordlessly, replacing his brother’s hands with his own and placing her beside him on the sofa on her back, side pressed against his torso. He offered her his hand to her and she grabbed it, grasping two long fingers in her fists.

“I’ll leave you to it.” Mycroft announced, getting to his feet and retrieving the umbrella he had left on the chair.

“Piss off!” Sherlock told him, looking down at his daughter.

Mycroft smirked and left, retreating down the stairs. Sherlock waited until the front door slammed shut then raised an eyebrow at his daughter, “you did that on purpose, you little terror.”


	29. Forty-Two Days Old

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sunday lunch with the parents and a new topic for discussion arises: a christening.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you guys enjoy this chapter :)

Sherlock huffed a breath and watched as the hairs on his daughter’s head stirred minutely, he craned his neck and placed his lips atop of her head, pouting against her scalp.

“Are you still sulking?” John asked, appearing with the baby bag in tow.

“No,” he mumbled against his daughter’s head.

“You are,” the army doctor seemed far too amused.

“Am not.” Sherlock insisted refusing to move his lips, instead he focused completely on Maeve; awake and content in his arms. He was sat on his armchair, one leg crossed over the other with Maeve resting in his arms while John was faffing around, getting everything ready for their Sunday visit to his parents while he offered no help.

“It doesn’t mean anything,” John went on, stepping further into the living room, and closer to his partner and his young ‘prodigy’; as Sherlock had started to refer to her, he saw Sherlock’s grip on her shift but not tighten as he spoke, “so she smiled at Mycroft first.”

“She did not smile at Mycroft first!” Sherlock growled, head snapping to look at the ex-army doctor with grey stormy eyes, the kind he got when he was angry. “She has been smiling for half of her life.”

“But never in response to another person smiling.”

Sherlock picked up a soft toy from the floor and threw it at him, the blonde dodged it with a grin, he sighed dramatically “I knew giving you that book would be a mistake.”

“I am a doctor, Sherlock, I do know about babies.” John raised an eyebrow at him.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and moved his head back to its original position, nose resting on her head and lips against the soft skin of her forehead, he spoke under his breath to Maeve, “he knows more now he’s read the book.”

“Did you say something?” John asked with a pointed look in his direction as he reached down to pick up the toy.

“She’s smiled in response to my smiling.” He argued, sounding much like a child on the last leg of his argument.

“But she smiled to Mycroft first.” John smirked and walked out of the room.

“Piss off!” Sherlock shouted after him.

Maeve growled against his chest and he sighed in satisfaction, moving his free hand to cup the back of her head as he placed a kiss in her hairline. “This is all your fault, they’re never going to let this go. Ever.”

Maeve sneezed, face scrunching up.

“Bless you.”

 

* * *

  

The cab pulled away from the curb, travelling at a relaxed pace down the street and into the London traffic. John watched the city pass through the window while Sherlock was lent over the carseat between them, angling his long body round the seat, his arm resting on the side closest to John and face directly in front of Maeve; instead of his usual pristine posture. He was alternating between his usual face of indifference and smiling at Maeve, changing every six seconds and observing his daughter’s reactions.

“What are you doing?” John asked, raising a curious eyebrow at the dark haired man in the window.

“Nothing,” Sherlock dismissed, his face settling on a small but visible smile as he kept his eyes on his daughter.

“Stop it,” John turned in his seat to fix his partner with a firm look, “she smiled at Mycroft first but, she smiled at you not an hour later.”

“Thirty-eight minutes.” He mumbled under his breath.

“You have nothing to prove.”

“Ilikeitwhenshesmiles” Sherlock blurted inaudibly.

John’s eyes widened as Sherlock cleared his throat, he asked, “What was that?”

Sherlock sighed, acting as though the question had put him out somehow and repeated, slower and surer, “I like it when she smiles.”

“Yes.” John urged gently.

“I like it when she smiles at me,” Sherlock admitted sounding embarrassed, his cheeks turning a delicious shade of pink, “at something that I’ve done, at my smiling at her.”

“No reason to be embarrassed.” John announced, soft smirk forming on his thin lips.

“I’m not embarrassed.” 

“No, you’re annoyed because she smiled at Mycroft first” he broke into laughter.

“Shut up John.” Sherlock demanded and sat back in his chair, keeping his arm firmly around the carseat and eyes on Maeve, she looked up at him with sleepy eyes.

“Sorry.” He managed between his laughing.

“No you’re not,” the consulting detective stated and then addressed Maeve, “you’re Papa is a very mean man.”

 

* * *

 

 

“Sherlock,” his mother greeted the moment she opened the door with a broad smile, she immediately stepped out of the way to allow Sherlock access into the house.

He stepped in, one long elegant stride with the carseat held high in front of his torso and John a couple of steps behind him, legs and strides shorter than the taller man, carrying the baby bag on his shoulder. He smiled at Violet and placed the bag on the ground while he took off his coat, and Sherlock went straight into the house not bothering to take off his own coat.

“Sherlock,” his mother repeated, now in annoyance.

The consulting detective did not respond, he walked straight into the dining room where his father was setting the table and took his seat on the edge of the table, beside it sat a large beanbag with straps for Maeve to rest in wile they ate. He placed the carseat on the table and went about unstrapping Maeve.

“Sherlock” His father sighed, pausing in his action of placing the forks onto the table.

“Is that the only noun available to those in this house?” He asked curiously, scooping Maeve up from the carseat and pausing for a moment with her just resting in his arms, still sound asleep.

“No,” his father responded, “just the one used most frequently.”

“Don’t tell Mycroft, he’ll get jealous.” Sherlock muttered and placed the sleeping baby in her seat.

Siger choked back a laugh, “that’s not exactly how I’ve heard it.”

Sherlock stood back up and raised his eyebrows at his father in both curiousness and a mock disappointment. His voice was clipped, “he told you.”

“Of course he told us,” Violet announced as she walked into the room with John, a smile peeking from her lips. John was doing little to contain his enjoyment of the situation.

“I was urging her to smile” Sherlock insisted, “She was unfortunately with Mycroft at the moment she decided to follow through on our practice.”

“Sherlock,” his mother scolded, placing her hands on her hips and raising her eyebrows at him expectantly, “you’re just jealous that she smiled at your brother first, there’s hardly need.”

“Am not,” Sherlock mumbled and plopped himself into his chair dramatically.

“You were always the same; even as a boy.” She went on, reminiscently.

“Violet.” Siger pleaded, he continued to lay the table with a glance at his wife.

 “Yes mother, do shut up.” Sherlock agreed with a fake smile in her direction.

John frowned at him and pulled out his own chair, the one beside his partner. “Don’t be so rude.”

“Rude,” Sherlock sputtered, “I am not rude, she just refuses to shut up.”

“She’s your mother.” John reminded him.

Sherlock frowned, as if he needed reminding that this woman was his mother, he’d grown up with her. He spun in his chair to face John and bent over slightly to look directly into his blue eyes, “I know she’s my mother. Why do you insist on reminding me?”

John sighed, “I’m not reminding you that she’d your mother.”

“He’s means respect, Sherlock.” Mycroft informed him as he and Greg walked into the room, side by side.

Mycroft wearing a navy blue suit with light pinstripes, a pale blue shirt and darker tie. His auburn hair brushed back neatly and pale skin shimmering in the light through the windows. Greg was dressed down, wearing a pair of dark blue jeans and a short sleeved top, no jacket. He has a large grin plastered on his face.

“Respect?” Sherlock repeated with distaste, question lingering in the air.

“Respect your elders,” Greg added, pursing his lips as he took the seat opposite John.

“What for?” Sherlock asked, nonchalant, shrugging his shoulders.

John rolled his eyes and pushed at Sherlock’s shoulder until he turned back in his seat, facing the empty seat that Mycroft would occupy. Though, at this moment the elder Holmes sibling was busying himself with pouring a brandy at the drinks table with their father, he looked up and asked, “Gregory?”

Greg nodded in answer.

Siger looked over at John, “John, care for a brandy?”

“No, thank you.” He answered with a smile.

“You can drink” Sherlock told him in a slightly hushed tone.

“I know.” John dismissed.

“We have matters to discuss,” Violet announced, taking her seat at the head of the table and clasping her hands in front of her.

Mycroft took an annoyed breath and took his seat, placing two glasses on the table in front of him and Greg while Siger sat opposite his wife with his own brandy.

She continued, “The christening.”

Greg’s eyes widened in shock and Mycroft choked on his drink, coughing as he placed the glass back on the table a little too heavily and fought to control his outburst. “What?” He wheezed when it had died down somewhat and Greg ran a hand over his back.

“It may have escaped your attentions mother, but neither of us are religious.” Sherlock announced, voice controlled and not giving anything away.

“You’re atheists?” Greg hazarded a guess.

“There is no way to commit yourself to something unknown,” Mycroft answered, voice lower than usual but returning to its usual coolness.

“There is no way to prove or disprove the existence of a god, whether it is Catholic, Roman, Pagan...” Sherlock continued for his brother.

“Agnostic.” The elder added.

“You were both christened,” Siger said simply, giving both of his sons a knowing look.

“And look how that turned out,” Mycroft said under his breath.

Sherlock smirked, “we were raised Anglican but it hardly lasted long.”

“But it makes sense,” his mother ignored her sons, “you were both christened.”

“We hardly need to thank god for the gift of Maeve.” Mycroft voiced with a small tight smile.

“God had nothing to do with it,” John added, both Greg and Sherlock laughed.

Violet looked appalled, “All the more reason to have her christened, this isn’t about you or your views, it’s about hers, to give her a sense of belonging and faith.”

“If I agree, will you guarantee that I will not have to attend a single church service?” Sherlock spoke up, turning to face his mother and narrowing his eyes at her critically.

The room was silent for a moment, a stunned silence fell over the occupants of the room and the only sound was that of Maeve snoring softly in her comfortable chair. Violet opened her mouth but didn’t speak, she resembled a fish for a moment with her mouth agape, and she managed after a moment, “Yes.”

Sherlock nodded and turned his attention to Maeve.

“You’ll have to meet the vicar and attend the christening, of course but I’ll arrange everything.”

“And Mycroft will oversee.” Sherlock told her as he reached down to wipe some drool from his daughter’s face.

“Of course,” Mycroft managed a small smile.

“Why would Mycroft oversee?” Greg asked.

“Because he knows what I want.” Sherlock replied, casual, as he crossed one leg over the other and wiped the drool from his finger on a napkin.

  

* * *

 

 

Mycroft stood up from the table to retrieve another brandy, John and his father had cleared the table and were taking things into the kitchen to help his mother. Sherlock stood up, straightening out his suit jacket and went to leave the room.

“Aren’t you taking her with you?” Greg asked, craning his neck to get a better view over the table at Maeve sleeping in her chair.

“To the bathroom?” Sherlock returned, shooting Greg a look that said ‘are you an idiot’ and promptly left the room.

“I’ll take that as a no,” Greg mumbled to himself, pushing out his chair and rising to his feet. He walked around the table, dropped into a crouch beside Maeve and gingerly reached out to touch the tinted pink cheek as she snored softly, mouth parted. He addressed her, “come to your uncle Greg.”

The grey haired man unstrapped her from the chair and scooped her up, choosing the position that Sherlock often favoured, arranging her on his chest so that her breath touched his neck. He watched her in fascination, glancing at an amused looking Mycroft, “she could sleep for England.”

“She is much like her father in that regard,” Mycroft placed the tumbler on the table and stepped elegantly over to his partner. He took a moment to appreciate the pair of them before edging closer, wrapping his arm around Greg’s waist.

“When he sleeps,” Greg added, raising his eyebrow.

“I sleep regularly,” Sherlock interrupted, re-buttoning his shirt sleeves as he strode back into the room, his eyes flicking over the pair in distaste before settling on Maeve and softening; he added, sounding put out, “John insists.”

“Did you want her back?” Greg asked.

Sherlock shook his head and took a step back, “No, it’s fine. I need to check my emails.”

They watched him leave. Greg looked up at Mycroft, “Do you ever think about kids?”

Mycroft eyes widened in shock and he unhooked his arm from Greg’s waist so that he could stand directly in front of his partner, grey eyes meeting brown. He took a moment before broaching the subject, “I thought that we’d already covered this topic.”

“No, I mean, yes, we have, we have had this conversation, I just thought,” He shrugged, “I dunno...”

“Gregory,” Mycroft voice was collecting but his eyes betrayed him, he looked panicked “I thought I’d made this clear, I have no desire for children.”

“Yes, we have, I’m not saying that we should have children, or that I even want them, I have children, beautiful children.” Greg told him, “I was just wondering if it was something that you’d thought about.”

“I do not see myself with children, you and your children are more than enough for me” Mycroft clarified, “I am happy with the life we have.”

“Me too,” Greg said decidedly, reaching up and placing a kiss on his partners cheek.

Mycroft nodded.

The older man then looked down at Maeve and nodded towards her, Mycroft followed his gaze, he added, “doesn’t she make you all broody though?”

“That’s not the word I would use.”

Greg raised an eyebrow in curiosity, “How does she make you feel then?”

Mycroft narrowed his eyes at Greg critically and sighed, he admitted, “Sentimental, happy, scared, tired, proud and old.”

Greg snorted at the last one, “sounds about right.”

 

* * *

 

“Have you stopped being sentimental?” Sherlock asked, not bothering to look up from his phone at his brother and partner entered the room, baby Maeve still in the grey haired man arms.

“For now,” Mycroft responded with a tight smile.

“Here’s your daddy,” Greg told the still sleeping infant as he crossed the room; stopping on the sofa in front of him and lent over, peeling the baby from his body.

Sherlock immediately pocketed his phone and reached up to intercept Maeve as Greg offered her to him. Her face scrunched up in displeasure as she was handed over and moved in her father’s large hands to face him, her eyes creaked open.

“Shhh” Sherlock hushed her, placing her on his chest, “Daddy’s here.”

  

* * *

 

 

Sherlock ran a hand down Maeve’s back, touch ghosting over her body and the soft clothes that she wore, she squirmed against his chest. He looked down at her with a fond smile as she blinked up at him, still groggy from sleep.

“Can we go now?” Sherlock turned his head to look at John.

The blonde paused in his action, tea cup hovering near his mouth and blue eyes staring suspiciously at dark haired man. He placed the cup back in the saucer, “you want to leave?”

“We’ve been here for hours,” Sherlock groaned like an oversized child.

“You make it sound like we’re keeping you prisoner.” Violet said, feigning offence.

Siger looked up from the page of his newspaper for a moment, eyes flicking from his wife to his youngest son and granddaughter; then back down the paper. Mycroft paid them little attention, his focus completely on his newspaper and Greg looked up from his phone.

“You are free to leave at any time,” Siger told him.

“We’re having a pleasant afternoon, do you really have to go?” Violet asked, desperate.

“No, of course not.” John answered with a friendly smile.

Sherlock shot him an annoyed look.

“I should be returning to work soon,” Mycroft announced, still not bothering to look up from his paper.

“Me too,” Greg added with a smile that almost completely hid his lips.

“I thought you were off today Gregory.” Siger remarked.

“I am” he nodded, “but we’re working on a couple of active cases, nothing high-profile and I thought I’d pick up the case files.”

“I can have a car take you to the office,” Mycroft offered, he looked up from his newspaper and smiled at his partner, announcing “Anthea will be here any moment.”

“Still going by Anthea?” John asked.

Mycroft hummed in confirmation, “She seems to favour that name at this particular moment in time.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes and focused his attention on Maeve, she was resting contently on his chest with her head turned to the side towards the other occupants of the room. Her blue eyes bright and searching over the room is slow but steady movements as she blinked, eyelashes fluttering against her pink tinged cheeks.

John edged forward in his seat, “she seems happy.”

Sherlock smirked and stroked down her back again, she wriggled under his hand and lifted her head as he stroked over the soft hairs like a cat following the hand of its owner. “She is content.”

“And you?” John asked.

“Fine.” Sherlock dismissed.

“You can leave if you want,” Violet conceded.

“No, it’s fine. I’ll just suffer through this mind numbing boredom.” Sherlock flashed a large grin.

John rolled his eyes, “do you have to be so dramatic?”

“Always,” Sherlock responded, elongating the vowel sound and hissing the s.

“Shut up and pay your daughter some attention,” John commanded.

Greg snorted and Mycroft glanced over at his brother and niece.

Sherlock voiced, “She has my full attention.”

“And you have ours,” Siger told him.

“You always do,” Violet added in a soft tone.

Sherlock ignored them in favour of repositioning Maeve, he hooked his hands underneath her arms and pulled her gently further up his chest, stopping when her face was tucked underneath his chin. He craned his neck back to rest his lips upon her forehead, kissing the warm skin and leaving them there.

“She’s an angel, isn’t she?” Violet beamed, clapping her hands in front of her in excitement.

“A little terror” Sherlock mumbled under his breath, speaking against his daughter’s smooth skin.

“What?” Siger asked, unsure, eyes narrowing and leaning forward.

“Little terror.” John repeated for him, “It’s a nickname.”

Siger nodded, “I believe I’ve heard it before.”

“She’s hardly a terror,” his mother argued.

“She is Sherlock’s daughter,” Mycroft reminded her.

“Can we go now?” Sherlock repeated his earlier question.

There was a shared groan and Violet stood up, “yes, just go, anything to stop your moaning.”

Sherlock smiled triumphantly.

“Thank you Mummy.” He looked up at her as she crossed the room, stopped beside his face and bent down to kiss him on the forehead. Then, she proceeded to kiss Maeve on the cheek.

“Go on, Mycroft can take you home.”

  

* * *

 

 

“What are you doing?” John asked.

Sherlock looked up. The consulting detective was crouched on the floor in nothing but a pair of black silk boxers, eye level with his daughter, she was lain on her stomach across the bed. He narrowed his eyes and then focused again on Maeve, she was looking at him from her position on the bed.

“Just watch,” Sherlock commanded, tone soft.

“Watch what?”

Maeve wriggled for a moment before moving her hands into a sturdier position beneath her chest and pushing her upper body up and resting on her hands for a moment, flashing a gummy smile at Sherlock as she did so. Sherlock was beaming at her, a genuine smile of triumph, excitement and pride.

John was speechless, looking between the two for a moment. “Did she…”

Maeve dropped back down onto the bed and gurgled loudly.                  

“She held herself up with her arms for the first time,” Sherlock finished John’s train of thought.

“Wow.” John managed. He slowly lowered himself down onto the bed, sitting on the opposite side to Maeve and his partner.

Sherlock looked over his daughter’s head at John for a moment. He said nothing, only smiled.

“She is amazing.” John managed, still in awe.

“She’s getting strong,” Sherlock told him.

“How did you know that she was going to do that?” The blonde asked, he moved onto his knees and then dropped onto his stomach beside Maeve.

“I observed,” Sherlock told him, “she’s been shifting during tummy time, positioning her arms in a similar manner, testing the waters, so to speak.”

“And the books?”

“They said it would be happening in the next couple of weeks.”

John watched Maeve as she kicked her legs and shifted on the bed; he offered her his hand and she accepted, grasping him by a single finger.

Sherlock lent forward and kissed his daughters forehead, “I love you, sweetheart.


	30. Forty-Six Days Old

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock has paperwork to do and dumps Maeve upon her Uncle.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It has taken me ridiculously long to upload this chapter, there is no excuse for it considering it was not a particularly long or important chapter. I have been so stressed recently with all my university work - deadlines and exams - and been having some issues of my own. I finished uni last week and should have been able to update this at least once in that time. Shame on me.  
> I will en-devour to do better because this fic is important to me. 
> 
> Please be kind with this chapter, i already know that it sucks.
> 
>  

 

“ _No,_ ” Mycroft repeated.

Sherlock sighed heavily into his phone, “I am only following orders.”

“ _They were hardly orders Sherlock._ ”

“Conditions then,” Sherlock corrected, he glanced out of the window as the cab pulled up outside of the building that his brother conducted his public work in – usually conference calls – and not the private office that he often entertained Sherlock in, “set in place when you brought out parents to meet Maeve for the first time, the 12th May…”

Mycroft interrupted; his voice tight, “ _I recall the conversation Sherlock._ ”

“I’ve started now, I may as well finished.” The cab driver opened the door for him with a friendly smile and Sherlock unhooked Maeve’s carseat and climbed out, holding Maeve out in front of him and the bag hooked over his shoulder. He used his free hand to hand the cabbie a wad of notes. “You were quite specific, ‘and I will see her every Monday at three, without fail’.”

“ _I have a conference call and two meetings,_ ” Mycroft reminded him.

“One formal meeting and the other informal, a friendly chat, Maeve will be no bother.”

“ _You are a bother_.” He exhaled.

“You partner is the one insisting on my presence for paperwork, I could do without it.” Sherlock admitted, climbing up the steps to the building. The doorman recognised him, acknowledging him with a nod of the head and opened the door.

Sherlock could almost hear the way his brother pinched his nose and smirked to himself.

“ _I’ve already given you my answer_.”

“Not good enough,” Sherlock growled into the phone, keeping his voice low as not to disturb his sleeping daughter and draw to much attention to himself from the people dotted in the entryway.

The receptionist raised an arched eyebrow in acknowledgement of the younger Holmes and rose to her feet, she walked over to him and led him to the lift, not uttering a word.

“ _I can see her after work,_ ” Mycroft argued.

“Nope,” Sherlock popped the p loudly, “the three of us are going for dinner.”

“ _You are being unreasonable,_ ” his older brother groaned into the phone.

The lift stopped on the correct floor and the receptionist gestured to Sherlock to depart, he did so, striding down the hallway towards his brothers office. “Mycroft, it is crucial that you spend time with her.”

“ _I understand…_ ”

“No, I do not think that you do,” Sherlock cut him off, “I would much rather be with her than without, especially for something as trivial as paperwork” he spat the word in disgust, “but I trust you with her.”

Mycroft sighed, “ _Can you not take her to our parents?_ ”

“No,” Sherlock answered quickly, not bothering to knock as he reached the door. Instead he walked straight in to the reception room of Mycroft’s office, glanced at the man sitting at the desk for a brief moment and walked straight into the room.

Both Anthea and Mycroft looked up from their work as he entered the room.

Mycroft rolled his eyes and placed his phone on the desk. “Why?” he asked, leaning back in his chair and fixing his brother with a look of annoyance.

Sherlock didn’t answer, instead he strode over to the desk and placed the car seat atop of it, ignoring the files, he twisted it so Mycroft could see his niece. The auburn haired man glanced at Maeve then back to Sherlock, annoyance quickly fading into amusement, the corners of his lips tugged up.

“Is she wearing pink?” He asked, rhetorically.

Sherlock groaned loudly and flopped into one of the armchairs, “John dressed her.”

“In pink?”

“He brought the outfit,” Sherlock brought his hand to his forehead and rubbed gently, distressed, “I couldn’t exactly say no.”

Mycroft chuckled at that, “Going soft, brother mine.”

Sherlock glared at him, “you should have seen his face, and he looked so pleased with himself, proud even.”

“It is a very lovely outfit,” Mycroft agreed.

The sleeping infant was dressed in a pale pink dress with a pink and grey skirt, matching pants over her nappy and a thin hat.

“Pink, why pink? He knows how I feel about pink.” Sherlock muttered thoughtfully to himself.

“Just go,” Mycroft told him. There was no use arguing.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow in triumph and jumped to his feet. “Drop her home later,” he instructed.

 

- 

 

“She is rather cute,” Anthea said thoughtfully, her full attention on the still sleeping infant.

“Hmmm” Mycroft hummed in acknowledgement, not looking up from the file he was currently reading while his PA gazed at the infant; her expression a strange mixture of fascination and curiosity, there was longing in her dark eyes.

“You could have one,” Mycroft said absentmindedly looking up from the file.

“This one?” Anthea smirked, glancing at her boss.

“Not that one, no,” he smiled back at her, “my brother is rather fond of her.”

“Yeah,” Anthea agreed, “he’s a good dad.”

“Yes, he is.” Mycroft nodded.

“And you, you’re a good uncle, sir.”

“Thank you.”

Anthea looked back at Maeve, her cheeks were tinted pink and small lips parted, “she looks like him.”

“Hardly anything of her mother in her appearance at all,” Mycroft said simply, voice clipped though it pained him.

Anthea shrugged and changed the subject, “seems like a lot of effort.”

“Pregnancy?” Mycroft asked, lips tugging into an amused smile.

“The whole package,” she answered, “Conceiving, pregnancy, birth.”

“All necessary parts.”

“Yeah but then who’d keep you in line?” her eyes twinkled mischievously.

Mycroft looked offended at the accusation.

There was a moment of silence, then she spoke again, softly, “you have a meeting in twenty minutes.”

“I am fully aware,” he sniffed and looked back down at the file.

“What are we going to do with her?” Anthea asked, gesturing towards the sleeping infant.

Mycroft sighed and closed the file, abandoning the pretence of work.

“There is hope that she will sleep.”

Anthea raised an eyebrow at him, challengingly.

Mycroft rolled his eyes, “she is too much like Sherlock to sleep when there is something important happening.”

 

- 

 

“What are your takes on the situation, Mycroft?” George asked. The grey haired government official lent back in his chair and removed his glasses, carefully crossing one leg over the other.

“The situation will require immediate action,” He answered with a small nod of his head.

George returned the nod as did the others sat around the table.

“It is my belief-” Mycroft began, a knock at the door interrupted him and he stopped, closing his mouth and turning towards the door.

It opened partially to reveal Anthea, a distressed smile on her face. “Sir, a situation has arisen that requires your immediate attention.”

Code…something was wrong with Maeve then.

Mycroft inhaled deeply, “Is my presence imperative? Or could the situation be dealt with by another person?”

Anthea fixed him with a pleading look and spoke, “You are the highest qualified person for this situation, sir.”

Mycroft nodded and turned to the table, flashing a fake smile of apology and followed his PA from the room. He closed the door softly behind him and asked, urgency flooding his voice, “Is she ok?”

“She’s been crying since she woke up five minutes ago.”

“Have you tried holding her?”

“I’ve tried everything” she fixed him with a serious look.

“Who is with her now?”

“Lewis is watching her.”

Mycroft nodded and they rushed down the hallway towards his office. The sounds of Maeve crying flooded the hallway, getting louder and louder the closer they got to his office. The desks in his reception area were empty and Anthea rushed through, opening the door for her boss. Mycroft stepped into the room, his eyes immediately settling on his receptionist Lewis, flustered and holding a very red and distressed infant.

“Thank god!” the blonde exclaimed at the sight of his boss.

Anthea snorted in amusement.

Mycroft raised an eyebrow and wordlessly took his niece from the younger man. Lewis sighed in relief and ducked out of the room, closing the door behind him. The auburn haired man settled Maeve into her favourite position and bounced her gently up and down, lips touching the top of her ear.

“You are quite the picture sir.” Anthea smirked.

“Haven’t you got anything useful to do?” He asked, raising his eyebrows at her.

“No, nothing at all.”

“Find something.”

“Spoil sport.” She stuck out her tongue at him playfully and left the room.


	31. Fifty-Six Days Old

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Family photograph day!!!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy New Years everyone!!!! I have rushed through this so you could all have a NYE treat, sorry for any mistakes but I am currently drinking cider and trying to rush out to a party.

 

“This is ridiculous,” Sherlock glared down at his daughter. Maeve gazed up at Sherlock, blue eyes wide and completely focused on his face. Mycroft chuckled softly behind him in amusement and the consulting detective looked over his shoulder to glare at the older man before turning back to Maeve, forcefully softening his expression.

“It’s photographs, there is no need to be quite so dramatic.” The elder Holmes scolded, straightening his tie in the floor length mirror.

“I don’t see why I have to participate.” He muttered under his breath, wrestling Maeve’s tiny feet into the soft sole shoes that matched her white lace dress and the pants that covered her nappy.

“The only reason mother insisted on this joyous event is because you decided to have procreate.” Mycroft informed him, stepping away from the mirror and standing beside his brother. He watched his niece, a fond smile settling on his usually collected face.

“I apologise for the inconvenience.” Sherlock drawled, voice dripping with sarcasm.

“This was an annual event,” Mycroft reminded him.

Sherlock straightened up, face stricken with horror. Mycroft was right, when they had been growing up their parents insisted on this as an annual event, photographs and also portraits. “No.”

“Yes,” Mycroft looked far too amused, “now this will undoubtedly become a regular occurrence.”

Sherlock took a deep breath and turned his attention back to Maeve, staring down at the small infant. He sneered, “I hope you’re happy.”

Maeve blinked up at him curiously.

“God!” Sherlock exclaimed.

Mycroft snorted.

“There is no possible way to stay mad at her,” he groaned dramatically.

There was a soft tap on the door.

John poked his head into the room and smiled at the sight – Mycroft dressed in a smart three piece smoky grey suit, white shirt and charcoal tie, Sherlock dressed in his usual Spencer Hart suit; a grey suit that was so dark it was practically black, white shirt an no tie, the first two buttons undone. And the pièce de résistance was baby Maeve, dressed in a simple white lace dress that stopped just above her knees, with matching shoes and pants over her nappy.

“Your mother is asking for you,” John informed them both.

“She’s doing more than asking,” Mycroft raised an eyebrow at the blonde man.

The ex-army doctor nodded, “she’s getting all worked up.”

“She does this every time.” Sherlock sighed.

“Fussing over each detail” Mycroft added, exhaling loudly.

“Yeah,” John faked a smile, “you should probably get down here before her head explodes about the flowers.”

“Flowers?” Mycroft asked, surprised.

Sherlock’s head shot up like a dog hearing the word ‘squirrel’, he looked appalled at the thought and turned on his brother and John. “Flowers?” he exclaimed, louder than necessary, “flowers?”

“Calm down Sherlock.” John managed.

“I was no informed that there would be flowers present.” Sherlock continued.

“Shut up!” John told him simply, “Pick up your daughter, bring her downstairs and smile for the photos, so help me, if you don’t I will withhold sex.”

“John!” Both Holmes brothers exclaimed at the same time, Sherlock in shock and Mycroft in disgust.

“Sorry,” he muttered to Mycroft apologetically.

Sherlock gave John a stern look, considering it for a moment before his expression softened and he shrugged his shoulders. He reached down to scoop up Maeve and placed her gently against his torso, careful that her open mouth was facing away from his suit and instead facing out, cheek against his shoulder.

“Let’s get this over with,” Sherlock muttered to himself.

They went downstairs together, Mycroft leading the way with John following and Sherlock behind them, keeping Maeve entertained against his chest, holding her with one arm and using the other to hold her small hand in his. They entered the room at the front of the house, a sitting room that had been set up for the occasion with a large white screen and floor sheet, a couple of stands with lighting kit and a large box of camera equipment.

Violet was stood in the middle, talking down to the photographer about what she wanted while the woman, a young woman with fiery red in a French plait and a large tattoo across her right shoulder revealed by her black racerback vest top. She was listening intently but obviously, regretting asking the question ‘what do you want?’ to the older woman.

Siger was stood at the side, monitoring his wife and the photographer. He turned at the sound of their approach and smiled, “she looks precious.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, like there was any doubt. Violet paused for a moment to gaze at her granddaughter, sons and their respective partners. Greg was sat on the sofa that had been pushed out of the way to make way for a photography studio, there was a case file balanced on his knee.

“Can we get this over with?” Sherlock asked, not really looking for an answer, he was looking for a way out.

“Sherlock!” His mother scolded.

“Some of us do have work to do.” Mycroft commented as he strode over to his mother, Siger followed.

Sherlock frowned, “what are you inferring?”

John sighed and interjected, “nothing, he meant nothing.”

Sherlock glared at his brother, not moving from his spot as John took a seat beside Greg.

“I meant nothing by it Sherlock.” Mycroft sounded bored.

The photographer popped her lips loudly and suggested, politely, “If you’d like to join the others, we could start.”

“No,” Sherlock said defiantly, eyes locked onto Mycroft, he repeated, “what are you inferring?

“That I have to return to work,” Mycroft answered simply, brushing an invisible piece of fluff from the arm of his jacket.

“I have important work to do” Sherlock replied.

Mycroft raised an eyebrow but said nothing. The photographer looked uncomfortable but not nervous.

“I may not be working any cases at this moment” Sherlock went on, “but my work is important.”

“Boys.” Violet warned.

“I meant nothing by it,” Mycroft repeated, sounding more than a little put out by the conversation.

“Yes you did, you are under the assumption that your work is more important than my own.”

“I said no such thing.”

“It was implied,” Sherlock snarled.

“Boys, stop it now.” Siger interrupted sternly.

“Raising my daughter is the single most important work.” He informed them.

“Sherlock,” John stepped in, literally getting up and stepping towards the consulting detective, “Mycroft meant nothing by what he said, he just wants to get this over and done with, like you. So, please, go and play nice for half an hour.”

Sherlock glared, he said between gritted teeth, “this is important.”

“Yes.” Mycroft agreed, conceding, “Now, can we get on with this.”

Sherlock pretended to consider it for a moment before stepping onto the white sheet to join his family, he didn’t bother faking a smile. He shifted Maeve slightly, so that she was facing the camera and kept hold of her small hand, to keep her entertained.

 

 

 

The next half an hour passed in simple silence, posing for photos – none of which Sherlock smiled for – and following the direction of the photographer.

“Time for a break.” The red headed photographer, Kelly, announced.

“Would it kill you boys to smile?” Violet asked, turning on her sons with a stern look.

“Yes,” Sherlock muttered, the same time Mycroft mumbled, “probably.”

Siger snorted and ducked out of the room to make tea, while Sherlock shifted Maeve into a cradled position in his arms.

“She getting heavy?” John asked with a faint smile.

“Nope,” Sherlock answered quickly, “it’s not easy to keep a two month old entertained for this long.”

“She’s lagging.” Kelly added helpfully, flicking through the pictures on the camera with a sad kind of smile.

“Is this over yet?” Sherlock asked, looking down at the baby in his arms. She was bored, and staring up at him now with wide eyes.

“Your mother suggested some natural shots,” Kelly answered, glancing up from the camera.

“Natural?” John asked.

“She wants a few of the boys and the baby, then some in the other rooms, single shots but the main focus is Maeve and Sherlock.”

“Great.” Sherlock sighed dramatically.

 

 

 

“What feels natural?” Kelly asked her.

They were all sat in the drawing room at the front of the house, spread across the sofas and chairs with tea on the table. Sherlock was sat alone in a chair with Maeve rested against his chest, head turned outwards towards the others while she chewed on her own fist.

“Leaving,” Sherlock suggested hopefully.

“Funny,” Kelly replied sarcastically, she took a step closer to the consulting detective and the baby, her camera hooked over her shoulder. “This is nice but I need you to remove her fist from her mouth.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes and glanced down at his daughter, a fond smile settling on his face at the sight of her chewing on her own fist. He shifted her into a more stable position, one arm supporting her, he used his free hand to carefully pry the now drenched fist from her mouth. She whined in protest.

Kelly stole a few photos, capturing the tender moment between father and daughter as they both looked at each other, her eyes widening in excitement at the sight of him, and his softening at the eye contact between them. She growled and Sherlock snorted in amusement, Kelly snapped a few more pictures.

“Can we try something else?” Kelly asked.

Sherlock turned to her, the others fearing the worst and clenched his jaw for a second before answering, “What would you suggest?”

 “The windows, it’s a nice day and the sun isn’t bright enough to mess up the shot.” She suggested.

Violet swooped in with a muslin, Sherlock used it to clean Maeve’s hand and then rose, keeping Maeve close to him and throwing the muslin into the space that he once occupied. Sherlock did as instructed and sat by the window, one leg stretched out on the window seat, bent slightly and the other placed firmly on the floor. He looked out of the window for a moment, ignoring the snapping of the camera and turned back to look at Maeve.

“These are looking good,” Kelly informed him as she moved around and continued to snap pictures.

“Do you think that you could move her? Kelly asked, “just lift her up to sit on your leg, support her however you need to and we’ll work around it.”

Sherlock moved Maeve, lifting her up and placing her on his thigh. He lent forward slightly and contorted his arms to support her body, making sure that her head was supported along with the rest of her body. A few more pictures and he shifted her again, bringing his other leg up and laying her down on them, she gazed up at him. Kelly got a couple more of the two of them before standing up and taking a few of Maeve on her own, the only link to Sherlock was his legs beneath her and the thumb clasped tightly in her hand.

“These are magical,” Kelly smiled, “would you like a few with your partner?”

The room was silent for a moment, John looked down at the floor and everyone else was avoiding looking at Sherlock. The consulting detective raised an eyebrow and responded in his best ‘are you an idiot’ voice, “Yes, of course I would.”

 

 

 

The next half an hour was focused on John and Sherlock with baby Maeve.

“Who wants to go next?” Kelly asked when they were done.

“Mummy can go first,” Mycroft offered.

Violet positively beamed.

Sherlock stood up as he mother approached and handed Maeve to her. He managed a small comforting smile and announced, “I need to feed her soon, and she’s getting tired.”

“That’s fine, we can work around that.” Kelly nodded, “After grandmother and grandfather, we can get the single shots, I know that Violet and Siger wanted a few together, Mycroft and Greg, and singularly, then you and John. Afterwards we can work on Mycroft and Greg with Maeve, then her on her own.”

Sherlock nodded in acknowledgement but said nothing, he watched his mother and daughter as they settled down for their own photos. It started on the sofa, then moved onto a few of them by the fireplace. Kelly then had them in the kitchen, it was more often or not where you would find his mother and seemed fitting. Siger joined in afterwards, so that the three of them had some photos together and then the two of them alone, his father and Maeve. Sherlock stayed close enough to keep Maeve interested.

“Let’s move on then,” Kelly announced, allowing Sherlock to take Maeve and prepare a bottle for her.

 

 

 

“Thank you” John said, taking the seat beside the consulting detective.

Sherlock looked up, confusion clouding his expression as his body remained focus on the task at hand, feeding Maeve. She drank eagerly as he asked, “For what?”

“For including me.” The blonde smiled, a small lopsided smile that was almost too perfect for words.

“Why wouldn’t I include you?” Sherlock seemed even more confused, narrowing his eyes critically at his partner.

“We, us, this is new, it’s a bit early in a relationship for family photographs but you included me, you didn’t even think about it.” The blonde explained, looking down at the baby between them and fondly stroking her head as she drank. Her eyes flicked up to him for a moment, and then back to Sherlock with the realisation that it was John touching her and now some random stranger.

“You are part of my family John.” Sherlock said with some severity.

“I know.”

“No, you obviously don’t.” Sherlock’s tone was soft but his eyes harsh, staring at John as though he would disappear any moment.

“I love you,” John told him.

“I love you, John.” Sherlock told him, “and I have thought of every possible variation of this, I will not accept you leaving me, I will never leave you, and this is forever John.”

“Gosh, look at you, being all romantic.” John chuckled.

Sherlock groaned, “Shut up.”

John lent forward, mindful of the child between them, and placed a chaste kiss on his partner lips.

Sherlock didn’t lean forward for more and search for his lips, instead he looked down at Maeve and took the bottle from her mouth, giving her a break before offering it to her again. She turned her head away.

“Finished?” he asked her.

There was no answer of course, instead she just blinked up at him. Sherlock shifted her onto his shoulder, face resting on the muslin he placed there, he rubbed her back softly.

“Are you going to let her sleep?” John asked.

“It would be a fifteen minute nap at best, not enough to sustain her, keeping her up would be even worse.”

“She’ll get fussy,” John added.

“Exactly.” Sherlock nodded softly.

“Well, I don’t envy you right now.” John told him with a grin.

Sherlock exhaled deeply.

 

 

 

The executive decision to keep Maeve awake was going to bite Sherlock on the arse, he knew is already. The longer she stayed up the fussier she became. They had gotten through the majority of the photos now, everyone on their own and with their partners, everyone had a photo with Maeve singularly and in pairs, now it was time for Maeve. She was lagging.

They tried various types of photos with Maeve. There were a few with her sat up, Sherlock’s hand supporting her underneath a blanket, then some with her on her front, between the small moments that she supported her head and attempted the push herself up. The best came from her being lain on a blanket and fighting off the throes of sleep. A couple of nice pictures were taken of her, gazing up at Sherlock, though you couldn’t see him, it was obvious by the look in her eyes –wonder, joy and excitement- that she was looking up at her father.

“Thank you,” Violet said for the umpteenth time.

Kelly smiled, glanced up from her crouched position on the floor, packing away all of her equipment. “My pleasure. She did well.” She nodded her head towards Sherlock who was leaving the room with a very fussy, practically asleep Maeve.

“Yes, she’s very well behaved.”

“Sometimes.” John added as he followed Sherlock out of the room, glancing over his shoulder with a smirk.

 

 

 

Sherlock left the door to the bedroom open knowing that John was not far behind, he walked to the further side of the bed and sat down. Then, maneuvered enough to be lent against the headboard with a pillow behind his back with Maeve cradled softly against his chest, fighting sleep off.

“She’s going to be fussy now, isn’t she?” John asked as he came in, closing the door softly after himself.

Sherlock huffed an irritated breath, “she needed to go down half an hour ago.”

“I’ll leave you to it then, come and get me when you want to go home.”

John lent over to place a kiss on Maeve’s forehead and left the room.

 

 

 

Mycroft opened the door as quietly as possible and peeked into Sherlock’s childhood bedroom. His mother was wondering what Sherlock was getting up to and instead of coming up herself, Mycroft had volunteered.

Mycroft paused at the sight, his brother was lain out on the bed on his side, body angled towards his sleeping daughter. She was holding one of his long finger and his other hand absentmindedly running over her shoulder and down her arm. He was in his mind palace, completely focused on something else but he was completely aware that Maeve was there.

Mycroft smiled to himself and retreated, closing the door.

He went downstairs with an uncontrollable smile on his face.


	32. Sixty Days Old

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Maeve has her first round of injections.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Enjoy everyone! I will not be updating quite this regularly in the coming months but I will attempt to update as much as possible!

Sherlock strode out of the bedroom with Maeve in his arms. The infant was resting against his side as though she was sitting on his hip, completely supported by his large hands and face pressed against his suit. She wore a simple pale yellow baby grow with a large cartoon bee.

“Injections?” John asked, glancing at Sherlock over the rim of his tea cup.

Sherlock have a curt nod and stepped into the living room. He strode purposely over to the Moses basket between the armchairs and placed Maeve in it, checking that she was comfortable and rose to his feet. John watched with interest as his face shifted, contorting with different emotions.

“What’s wrong?” John asked, he knew that his partner was worried but there was more to it.

Sherlock shot John a look that said ‘are you a complete idiot’ followed by a softer ‘I love you’ expression. He sighed dramatically, “I’m expected to volunteer my daughter for pain.”

“Its injections Sherlock, she needs them.” John shrugged. 

Sherlock spun around and collapsed into his chair, staying motionless for a moment before hoping up onto his feet. He crouched in the seat like a bird hovering from a tree and asked, “How do they do it? Normal parents.”

John managed a small smile, “they get on with it, there’s no way to console a child of that age. Just show her that you’re there and cuddle her, watch her for any symptoms.”

“This is tedious,” Sherlock declared, jumping down to sit in the chair properly and pinching the bridge of his nose.

Maeve whined loudly from her chair.

“I wasn’t referring to you.” Sherlock told her softly.

She repeated the sound and Sherlock nodded, accepting that as her understanding.

“I do not envy you.” John told him as he stood up, “now I’ve got to get to work.”

“Of course you’re abandoning me in my time of need,” he groaned, turning his face away from John and looking at Maeve.

“You are a drama queen.” John informed him.

Sherlock’s jaw dropped.

 

 

 

“You must be Mr. Holmes.” A nurse smiled as she entered the room and shut the door softly, effectively cutting off the racket of waiting room. The nurse was a thin woman with fake blonde hair tied into a neat pony tail at the back of her head, blue eyes and a smile fixed on her face.

“I must be,” Sherlock remarked.

The nurse either didn’t hear him or chose to ignore him, instead she walked over to the desk to retrieve the correct paper work and then, looked up at him with a friendly smile. She took her seat.

“Today we’ll be giving-” she paused to glance at the name on the file, “-Maeve her 5-in-1, this is a single jab that protects against diphtheria, tetanus, pertussis, polio and haemophilus influenzae type b.” She explained, “We’ll also be vaccinating her against Pneumococcal infection, rotovirus and Meningitis B.”

She looked up at Sherlock, smile still firmly in place and asked, “Have you got any questions?”

Sherlock jigged Maeve slightly to keep her content, “the possible side effects.”

The nurse nodded in understanding and answered his question, “Maeve may seem unwell after the jab, we are in fact injecting her with small doses of each virus, her body will respond. In most cases there is fever, raised temperature which can be 37.5 degrees or hotter – this is nothing to worry about but it will need to be monitored, if her temperature reaches 38 then you should contact your doctor or GP.”

“My partner is a doctor.” He informed her.

“That’s handy,” she chuckled and continued, “there is also a chance of diarrhoea and sickness, swollen glands and a bump at the site of the injection – this will be a small lump that can last a couple of days or weeks. These are all completely normal side effects of the injections that we are giving her.”

“Will this take much longer?” Sherlock asked, glancing down at a now squirming Maeve.

“Not at all,” the nurse assured him with a reassuring smile, “is there anything else that I can get you before we start?”

Sherlock shook his head.

“You’ll need to put Maeve on the examination table on top of the sheet and keep her still, you don’t have to hold her firmly, just keep her arms still for me,” the nurse instructed him.

Sherlock did as instructed and stood up, placing Maeve on the table with great care. She blinked up at him in surprise and displeasure, whining in protest. He took her hand in his for a moment, lent down and placed a soft kiss on the tiny fist.

The nurse came over with a tray with the syringes lined up and small plasters with teddy bears, her hands now covered with gloves. She smiled softly at baby Maeve and then faced Sherlock, “this can be very difficult for parents.”

Sherlock nodded curtly in understanding.

The nurse continued, “The injections will be going into her thighs because -”

“It lowers the risk of an injection site reaction,” Sherlock finished for her.

The nurse frowned in confusion as she sorted through the syringes on the tray, checking each one and placing them in the correct order. “Is you partner a paediatric doctor?”

Sherlock shook his head and took his place at the side of the table, out of the nurse’s way but close to Maeve. He took both of her arms gently into his hands and crossed them loosely over her chest. She squirmed. “RAMC,” he explained, “he works in this clinic.”

“Are you talking about Doctor Watson?” The nurse asked, gobsmacked.

“Yes.”

“He could have been present for this,” she informed him.

“Why?” Sherlock narrowed his eyes at her, “he is not a practice nurse.”

The nurse giggled, “No he is not, shall we?”

Sherlock nodded and braced himself mentally for what was about to happen.

“I will be injecting two vaccines in one thigh and two in the other, I will clean and cover the wounds between.” She informed him, “this will be very distressing for her and most parents want to interfere but we find it better to get this done as quickly as possible so that you can be on your way.”

Sherlock managed a small nod of understanding, his full attention on Maeve.

Maeve released a high-pitched wail the moment the first needle pierced her skin and began crying hysterically as Sherlock watched on unable to help her. His heart panged at the sound and sight of his daughter, her skin flushed a warm red and tears beginning to stream from her eyes, she looked up at him, hurt and confused. The nurse had already wiped and placed a plaster on the injection site, pausing only to check the next vaccine before placing the needle into the baby’s thigh again, above the plaster. Maeve screamed louder and continued to during the next two injections.

“Done,” the nurse declared as she placed the last plaster on the girl’s thigh, quickly picked up the tray and moved to the other side of the room.

Sherlock slid a hand underneath his daughter to rest on her bum, careful to avoid her legs and scooped her up. He held her close to his one large hand on her bottom and the other cradling her head. She continued to cry into his neck tears wetting his skin as she screamed. He watched her cautiously and jiggled her in an attempt to calm her, pressing his lips against her forehead. The soft dark hairs tickled his nose reassuringly.

“I’ll give you a few minutes,” the nurse told him before ducking out of the room leaving Sherlock alone with a screaming baby.

He continued to bounce her softly up and down, she was no longer screaming but her crying had intensified.

“Shhh…” he whispered, tone soft, “Daddy’s here.”

He placed another kiss on her skin and didn’t bother to move his lips this time, he spoke against her skin, “I’m so sorry.”

A gentle knock at the door caught his attention, he turned towards it but didn’t pause in his ministrations, too focused on calming Maeve down. The door opened and in place of a nurse, John popped his head in, eyes full of concern.

“Everything alright?” He asked, rhetoric. It was quite obvious that everything was not alright.

He didn’t bother with a glare. John stepped into the room and closed the door behind him.

“How did it go?” John asked.

“How do you think it went?” Sherlock snapped.

John didn’t respond, instead he stepped closer to get a better look at Maeve. She was crying against Sherlock’s neck, tears streaming down her cheeks and his neck. There were wet mark on his shirt, not that he cared at this moment, it was far more important to calm Maeve down.

“Someone was a brave girl,” John observed. He looked up at Sherlock and asked, “Are you alright?”

He gave a curt nod to which John raised his eyebrow. Sherlock frowned and remained silent for a moment, then admitted, “This is not an experience that I wish to repeat.”

“You’re more distressed than she is.” John observed.

“I couldn’t help her,” Sherlock said simply, voice threatening to crack.

“I called Mycroft,” the blonde doctor informed him in a gentle tone, “he’s got a car waiting outside to take you to home.”

Sherlock wanted to protest but instead nodded, better to have a car than hunt for a cab, the sooner he got Maeve home the better. John gave a small nod of understanding and wrapped an arm around the taller man’s waist. He reassured him, “She’ll be fine.”

“If she ever forgives me,” Sherlock muttered against her hairline.

“She will, don’t worry.”

“She looked at me like I betrayed her,” Sherlock told him, recounting the look in her eyes the moment the first needle pierced her skin.

“And she’ll forget about it in an hour after she’s had some quality time with her daddy.”

 

 

 

John walked him out of the clinic, carrying the car seat and changing bag. Sarah was stood behind the desk and managed a sad smile at the sight of them with a still very upset Maeve, crying at the top of her lungs.

“Two secs,” he promised.

Sarah nodded in understanding and John mouthed a ‘thank you’.

There were a few supportive smiles from other parents in the waiting area. John lead him out, holding open the doors for his partner and the distressed infant. The car was waiting for them, the driver opened the door and stepped away to allow them access. Sherlock ducked into the car with Maeve and slid across to allow John room to place the car seat in there.

“I’ll see you at home later,” John told him.

Sherlock nodded and wrestled a very upset baby into her carseat. John closed the door and the car pulled away without Sherlock having to give an address, the driver had already been informed on everything.

“Shhh…” Sherlock hushed, holding one of Maeve’s hands with her own.

The rest of the car journey passed in silence, well silence with Maeve crying.

“You’ll make yourself sick.” He told her, sighing loudly.

 

 

 

Sherlock closed the door behind him. Maeve was no longer crying but sniffling loudly in her carseat. Mrs Hudson bustled out of her flat with a sad expression, “Oh dear, is everything ok?”

Sherlock levelled her with a look.

“Do you need any help?” She asked.

“Can you take this?” Sherlock asked lifting up the carseat that was still occupied by Maeve.

Mrs Hudson took the offered carseat and held it steady, Sherlock unclipped her and lifted her out. He pulled her instinctively towards his chest and held her close, she sniffled but settled against his neck. Mrs Hudson placed the car seat on the floor and smiled at the two of them.

“Go on, take her upstairs and I’ll make you something to eat.” Mrs Hudson instructed.

Sherlock nodded and added, “I need to settle her down first.”

“I’ll put it in the microwave for you, you can heat it up when you’re ready.”

 

 

 

Maeve had finally stopped crying. She was asleep and sniffling softly in-between snores.

They were settled on his bed, lain on his back with Maeve sprawled across him. Her head on his chest and angled upwards to look at him (even though she was fast asleep). He stroked down her back in a comforting motion, more for his sake than hers. He stopped, and touched her forehead with the back of his hand. It was hot to the touch, hotter than usual and would need to be monitored.

“I’m sorry sweetheart.” Sherlock told her.

 

 

 

There were footsteps and a soft tap on the bedroom door stirring Sherlock from his exertions, his eyes flicked from their rested position on Maeve and towards the door as it opened. Greg Lestrade poked his head through the gap he had created with a wary smile, brown eyes settling on the consulting detective and his sleeping daughter.

“Mycroft called, thought I’d pop in and see how you both were.” He imparted in a soft tone.

Sherlock gave a small nod in understanding and focused again on the sleeping baby, making sure his hand was resting lightly on the small of her back and bottom.

“She ok?” Greg asked, stepping further into the room and perching himself on the edge of the bed beside Sherlock’s legs.

“Slight raised temperature.”

“She cry a lot?”

Sherlock nodded, careful not to disturb the sleeping infant and answered, deep voice low “For twenty minutes.”

“Gave the driver quite an earful I hear,” Greg added with a smile.

Maeve whined in her sleep, stretching her legs and moving her arms closer to her body. Sherlock watched her intently for any signs of discomfort or waking, when there was none he relaxed slightly but kept his attention on her.

“I couldn’t settle her.” He said after a moment.  

“She alright now?” Greg pressed.

Sherlock frowned, “I don’t know.”

Greg nodded.

He continued, “She’s hot and still very distressed.”

“Have you eaten?” Greg asked, levelling the younger man with a concerned look.

Sherlock considered lying but decided against it and shook his head.

“Mrs Hudson said something about lunch?” The grey haired man asked.

“Microwave.”

Greg nodded and rose to his feet.

 

 

 

“Foods ready,” Greg informed him as he picked up the bowl of chicken pasta soup in the microwave with a towel wrapped around it and placed it on the (surprisingly clean) table.

Sherlock stepped slowly into the kitchen with Maeve held securely against his chest, a thin blanket held over her back. He glanced around the kitchen, eyes pausing on Greg and then, the bowl of soup.

“I’ll get her Moses basket.” Greg said, ducking out of the room long enough to grab the Moses basket and come back into the room. He placed it onto the table beside the bowl and smiled at the younger man.

Sherlock took some time placing the sleeping infant in her basket, positioning her on her back and making sure that she was completely settled before sitting down, stormy eyes fixed on the even breaths of his daughter. Greg took the seat opposite him, placing his own warmed bowl of soup on the table and a plate with lightly toasted homemade bread.

Sherlock glimpsed at him, eyes flicking over his dark suit and the warm expression in his chocolate brown eyes. “Shouldn’t you…be at work?” He asked in an attempt to make small talk.

“Lunch break,” Greg answered.

Sherlock picked up his spoon and stirred the hot soup, watching the chunks of chicken, vegetable and pasta swirl together to create a delicious aroma. “You came to check up on us.”

“No.”

“Yes,” Sherlock corrected.

“Her, I came to check up on her.” Greg clarified, “I know how difficult vaccinations can be.”

Sherlock remained silent and started on his soup.

 

 

 

Greg cleared the bowls and plate away, placing them in the empty sink as Sherlock stood up and focused his complete attention on Maeve once more. She was asleep, snoring softly with the occasional sniffle. His eyes flicked over her tiny form, pausing on the four plasters stuck to her thighs and back to her face. Her cheeks were a warm pink and dark eyelashes fluttering slightly in sleep against her cheeks.

“Does she still have a fever?” Greg asked as he shed his jacket, placing it on the back of a chair and rolling his sleeves up.

Sherlock reached into the Moses basket and gently placed the back of his hand onto her forehead. She felt warmer than normal, definitely a raised temperature. He nodded, “It’s not hot enough for concern.”

“You can tell just by touching her?” Greg asked, eyes wide in surprise.

“I’ve memorised her body temperature and recognise when there is a change even through layers of clothing.” Sherlock informed him, running his hand down her face softly.

“Been sorting out the mind palace?”

Sherlock nodded.

“She got a room?” He gestured towards the sleeping infant.

Sherlock chuckled. He had explained the concept of a mind or memory palace before but John had been the one to get through the older man, explaining the technique at the pub one night. He made sure to keep his tone soft as he admitted, “more than a single room.”

“She’ll have her own wing in a few years,” Greg jested as he dove into the washing up.

“All that and more Lestrade,” Sherlock returned with a small satisfied smile.

“She need feeding?”

“I don’t want to disturb her,” he confessed.

“Want me to make it?” He asked, glancing over his shoulder at the dark haired man.

Sherlock shook his head.

 

 

 

With the bottle made Sherlock began the process of waking his daughter. He started by picking her up and placing her against his chest, her face on his shoulder. She exhaled loudly, breath ghosting his skin through the ‘v’ in his shirt and squirmed.

“Time to wake up,” he told her.

Maeve burrowed further into his shoulder.

“Sweetheart,” he said a little louder.

Greg watched fondly from the doorway as the consulting detective attempted to wake his daughter, standing in the middle of the living room and bouncing her slightly in a comforting motion.

“Maeve,” Sherlock pressed, voice sterner than it had been previously.

“Should she be sleeping so much?” Greg asked.

“A normal reaction to the vaccine,” Sherlock answered, the ‘obvious’ silent.

“Do you need anything before I go?”

“What could I possibly need?” Sherlock asked, turning and rounding on the DI.

Greg looked at the ground, “nothing.”

Sherlock turned back, his body facing the mirror as he jiggled his daughter in an attempt to wake her.

“I’ll catch you later.” Greg said, ducking out of the doorway and starting down the stairs.

Sherlock ignored him and ran a hand down his back.

“Time to wake up sweetheart, your lunch is going cold.”

Her face scrunched up against his skin in displeasure and she grunted as she woke.

“Sherlock,” Mrs Hudson called up the stairs.

Sherlock sighed at the disruption and twisted his neck to place a kiss on Maeve’s head, she squirmed some more and growled.

“Did you hear me Sherlock?” His landlady asked as she climbed up the stairs and stopped in the doorway.

“I need to feed Maeve.” He told her, not bothering to turn around and face her.

“Your mother just called, she wanted to know how the injections went.”

“What did you tell her?” He asked, careful to articulate each word.

“I told her you’d call her back.”

“Why would you do that?” Sherlock whipped round to face her, “I have no intention of calling her.”

Mrs Hudson frowned at him, much like a disapproving parent and scolded him, “she’s concerned.”

“I’m a little busy,” he changed the subject.

“Call your mother.” She instructed him with a stern look.

Sherlock glared at her for a second, “I have my hands full here Mrs Hudson.”

“I could take her for you, just this once mind you.”

“No,” he said a little too quickly, he clarified in a softer tone, “she needs to be with me, I will talk to my mother.”

Maeve let out a soft cry as she woke and Mrs Hudson held out an understanding hand before disappearing downstairs leaving both father and daughter alone. Sherlock placed a large hand on the back of her head and kissed her soft hair. In one shift movement he was sat in his armchair, placing a muslin over her front and offering her the bottle. She squirmed for a moment before accepting it and drinking enthusiastically.

“Good girl,” he whispered to her.

 

 

 

Sherlock had his eyes closed when Mycroft arrived. The elder Holmes paused in the doorway to study his younger brother. He looked strained, pale with dark circles forming under his eyes despite the peaceful look on his face. He was concentrating, focusing on something in his mind palace while Maeve slept soundly on his chest. His hand ran down her back in soft regular movements from the bottom of her skull to the swell of her nappy beneath her clothes.

“Are you going to stand in the doorway all afternoon, brother mine?” Sherlock asked, opening his eyes to look up at the tall man critically.

Mycroft gestured to the empty chair, “may I?”

“Like that’s ever stopped you before,” Sherlock answered.

Mycroft rolled his eyes and stepped further into the room, taking the empty seat usually occupied by John.

“Mind palace?” Mycroft asked, already knowing the answer.

Sherlock hummed thoughtfully in answer, “had some…filing to do.”

“New data,” Mycroft said, it was a statement, not a question.

“Constantly,” Sherlock drawled sounding bored.

“I take it everything went well at the surgery.”

Sherlock snorted in incredulity, eyes flicking swiftly from his brother to Maeve, “like you don’t already know.”

“Thought I’d ask,” Mycroft said, mocking offence.

“Why?” He focused on his brother and narrowed his eyes.

“Isn’t that what normal people do?” the auburn haired man asked, disgusted and picked a piece of lint off of the arm of his suit jacket.

“She’s fine.” Sherlock declared, changing the subject and broaching the elephant in the room, “slight raised temperature, irritability and holding a grudge.”

Mycroft narrowed his eyes in disbelief, “she’s two months old.”

“And I was present while a nurse was stabbing her with needles, twice in both legs.”

“You didn’t give her the injections.”

“No, I just made sure that she was completely still and watched her,” Sherlock flashed him a fake smile, a lame attempt to hide his torment.

“She’s seems content now,” Mycroft observed, raising and eyebrow and leaning to peer at his niece.

Sherlock ran his hand down her back in a long slow motion.

He continued, “Would you like me to take her?”

Sherlock shook his head, “I would prefer that she stay with me, to monitor her for further side effects and any raises in temperature.”

“Is she likely to be...” he considered the correct choice of word for a moment, “fussy?”

“It is probable.”

“You need to get out of the house.” Mycroft told him, “A walk in the park should suffice.”

“Will you be joining us?” Sherlock asked.

“Will I be welcome?”

Sherlock snorted, “When has that ever stopped you?”

 

 

 

Maeve was awake and kicking in her pram. Sherlock was cautiously glancing between her and the path ahead as he pushed the pram. The brothers strolled side by side, the consulting detective’s grip tight on the handle as Mycroft flicked his umbrella with finesse with each step. The park was bustling with life which was not unlike the mid-afternoon in London.

“Is this what you do?” Mycroft asked, he knew but was also curious.

Sherlock glimpsed at him and then back at Maeve, his voice even, “What?”

“Go for walks in the park, spend all day on the sofa, is this what you do?” He asked, specifying. “Is this being a parent?”

“There is more to it than that.” Sherlock frowned as they turned onto another path, taking them past a large field scattered with people eating their lunch and chatting.

“Do you enjoy it?”

“Tedious.” Sherlock muttered.

Mycroft raised an eyebrow.

“Not her,” he continued, “this conversation.”

“Is parenthood all you expected it to be?” The elder Holmes asked, pushing his brother for answers.

Sherlock stopped, pausing on the path and rounded on his brother. He narrowed his eyes critically, “You’re testing me, why? I’ve already proved myself to be a capable candidate for Maeve’s care and am developing as a father.”

“I’m not testing you.”

“My life has changed dramatically in the last two months, my priorities have shifted and I find myself settling into a routine. Abhorrent as it is, I have adapted to a new form of life.” Sherlock argued, “Partner and baby.”

Mycroft nodded and admitted, “Social services are sniffing around.”

“Still?” Sherlock didn’t seem fazed by the news. He began walking again, one hand steering the pram and the other reaching in to check on Maeve. He repeated his earlier motion of checking her temperature, cooler than before but still warmer than average, and offered her his hand. She accepted it, grasping one long finger in her fist. Mycroft stayed in line, walking in step with his brother and watching his exchange with Maeve with a small tugging of lips.

“My influence only goes so far.”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

Mycroft continued, “Surprisingly they are not entirely convinced that a free-lance detective and former drug addict is caring for a baby.”

“And an ex-army doctor.” Sherlock added with an annoyed frown.

“They are more concerned with your capability to care for Maeve.”

“They were happy enough to have you deal with the paperwork and rush through the first visit” Sherlock responded, both annoyed and slightly confused, “they were happy enough.”

“Well, now they need more assurance,” Mycroft sighed, “I’ll do what I can.”

Sherlock nodded – a small thank you for his brother’s efforts that he would never say out loud – and watched Maeve’s blue eyes flick over him and Mycroft with curiosity.

“Back to Baker Street.”

“Yes, don’t you have a country to run?” Sherlock asked.

“Anthea can manage for another hour.”

 

 

 

Mycroft remained for the next hour, tea and biscuits provided by Mrs Hudson who then busied herself with cleaning the flat (just this once though) and Sherlock entertained Maeve will a session of tummy time. The flat cleaned, Mycroft and Mrs Hudson gone Sherlock spent the rest of the day reading to Maeve as they sat together in his chair, her sat on his laps looking at the book.

“Sherlock,” John called as he climbed the stairs, stopping the doorway for a brief moment before stepping into the living room with a small wonky smile. “Has she been alright?”

“Slightly elevated temperature and irritable,” he told the doctor.

“Been reading to her?” John asked gesturing to the book that Sherlock had dropped to rest on his knees.

Sherlock hummed in response, “Through the Looking Glass.”

“She looks interested,” John chuckled as he crouched down in front of the detective.

Sherlock craned his neck to look at her, his very awake and irritable baby was now fighting off sleep, her eyelids drooping heavily and mouth parting, in the space of half a minute.

“Little terror,” Sherlock muttered.

John shook his head, amused. “Do you want me to put her in her basket?”

“Leave it in here.”

“You don’t want it in the bedroom?” he asked, slightly confused.

“I’d prefer to have her close, when she wakes she’ll want me nearby.”

“Been through enough trauma today,” John agreed and went about moving the basket, placing it on the stand between the two chairs and positioning it closer to the detective, close enough that he could watch her without straining his neck.

Sherlock placed the book on the desk and stood up, lifting Maeve with him. Her eyes opened at the movement but she didn’t protest as he placed her in the basket, covering her body with a blanket. She stared up at him with sleepy eyes and growled, the sound a low rumbling in her small chest. Sherlock smiled at her and offered her his hand once more, placing it softly on her chest. She jerked slightly and grabbed the hand with both fist, keen to have him close.

“I’m going to have a shower, did you need anything?” John asked, watching his partner and the baby.

Sherlock shook his head, his complete focus on Maeve.

 

 

 

“Goodnight, Sherlock.”

Sherlock hummed absentmindedly.

“Sherlock,” the voice said a little more forcefully.

Sherlock blinked and looked up, slightly confused as to his surroundings. His eyes found and settled on John after a moment, the ex-army doctor was dressed in pyjama bottoms and an old t-shirt.

“Are you coming to bed?” John asked.

“Maeve,” Sherlock managed in response.

John nodded, “you can feed her in bed.”

Sherlock observed John for a moment and gave a soft nod.

“I can make a bottle while you move her.” John turned to make the bottle.

“Thank you.” Sherlock told him.

John stopped in shock and turned back to face the detective with a wary look on his face. He smiled and nodded, going back to the task at hand and making the bottle.

Sherlock glanced into the Moses basket at his sleeping daughter and reached in, her face scrunched up as pulled her close but she remained asleep, puffing a warm breath against his neck. He took her into the bedroom, turning on her nightlight and the light on John’s bedside table, and placed her in the middle of the bed with a blanket placed over her. She whined, stretching out in her sleep and settled against the soft covers. Sherlock spared her once last look before retrieving the Moses basket and stand, he carried them into the bedroom. Maeve was still sleeping soundly on the bed, he watched her as he placed the items beside the bed, on his side and sat down next to his daughter.

“One bottle,” John announced quietly, brandishing both items for his partner to see. Sherlock looked up at him. “And a muslin.”

“Goodnight, John.”

“Goodnight Sherlock” John returned, handing the bottle and muslin to his partner, “Goodnight Maeve.”


	33. Sixty-Six Days Old

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock attends a meeting with Social Services and Mycroft is there to lend a helping hand, and stop his brother from getting into unnecessary trouble. Later, he attends a crime scene and is gifted with Maeve's first laugh.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Enjoy, and please leave feedback, I love to hear from you all and it really encourages me to write when I'm being lazy!

“Thank you for agreeing to meet with us Mr Holmes,” a haggard woman greeted as she stepped into the hallway, gesturing for him to enter the room.

Sherlock and Mycroft rose from their chairs simultaneously. Sherlock had Maeve attached to him in her papoose, facing his chest as she slept. The younger Holmes’ eyes inspected the woman, flicking over her person critically before settling again on her face with a cold expression. He didn’t say anything, instead he brushed by the woman in a detached manner, his body radiating the same abhorrence that he reserved for people he wanted nothing to do with. Mycroft had seen his brother in this manner before, often he was on the receiving end but it was more often or not reserved people of authority, that wanted to throw their weight around, that he had little respect for.

“And you are…” the woman asked.

“Mycroft Holmes.” He introduced, flashing an overly fake smile.

“The elder brother?” She asked.

Mycroft answered with a simple nod and followed his brother, eyes flicking over the haggard blonde and reading everything of interest. It may come in handy later.

Sherlock glanced at the other woman at the table, younger with a dyed red pixie cut, and took his seat on the opposite side of the round table, cradling the sleeping baby Maeve with an attentive hand on the back of her head. His brother took the seat beside him, with a quick glance to the baby and his younger brother, he focused his attention on the two woman, the blonde taking a seat beside the red head.

“I’m Louise Weatherly,” the red head introduced with a friendly smile, “and this is my colleague, Michelle Ford. Firstly, I’d like to thank you for agreeing to meet with us and secondly-”

Sherlock interrupted with a level tone, “you’d like to discuss the competence of my parenting.”

Louise Weatherly looked taken back by the statement and the blonde watched him with a critical gaze. Michelle corrected, “There are some matters of concern that have been brought to our attention.”

“The papers,” Mycroft surmised.

“The two occasions in which I have featured on the front page were not my doing, I did not consent to having my pictures taken and have attempted to not only keep Maeve away from them but shield her in general. I do not want her in the public eye.” Sherlock told them, impassively.

 “It is not that she was in the papers that is often the way with…celebrities,” Louise said, “It’s the circumstances in which the articles took place.”

Michelle opened the file in front of her and plucked out a sheet of paper, she slid it across the table towards the Holmes brothers. It was a photocopy from the front page of The Sun, taken on the 26th May, the day that Sherlock was stabbed. The main picture was that of the street, cordoned off with police tape and cop cars, ambulances parked all over the street. There was a photograph of him placed on the side, walking with baby Maeve in a papoose, cradled against his body and large hand over her head, making sure there were no pictures taken of her. The head line read ‘DISASTER STRIKES BAKER STREET, CAN MR HOLMES SOLVE IT’.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow and Mycroft muttered, “Interesting headline.”

The consulting detective snorted in amusement, hands still firmly in place upon his daughters head and bottom.

“This is no laughing matter, Mr Holmes.” Michelle snapped. Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

Louise cleared her throat, “it’s just that this kind of behaviour is very worrying.”

“Quite,” Sherlock articulated, “very worrying indeed.”

“It was an isolated incident,” Mycroft added, “the culprits gained access through the flat below but the issue has been dealt with and the property secured.”

“Secured?” Michelle repeated.

“I have included additional security to the property to make sure no other incidents like this occur,” he explained.

“Can we be sure that this was an isolated incident?” Michelle asked.

Louise continued, “With your chosen profession, there are certain dangers, is there anyway to be sure that this will not happen again?”

“I pick and choose my cases,” Sherlock explicated, “I have taken considerably less cases since the arrival of Maeve and always think of her first, before accepting cases.”

“You have a strong network of friends and family?” she asked.

Mycroft nodded and answered for his brother, while the young Holmes entertained himself with the soft strands of hair atop of his daughter’s head. “Sherlock’s partner is a doctor, then there is myself and Gregory, he is a Detective Inspector at New Scotland Yard, our parents see Maeve weekly and are always happy to lend a helping hand.”

“Where was Maeve on the night of this incident?”

“You have the police reports,” Mycroft raised an eyebrow in gesture to the sheets of paper inside the file.

“Yes, we do but we’d prefer to hear it from you.” Michelle told them.

“Asleep, in my bedroom.” Sherlock answered, looking up at the woman with a cold expression.

“The police report does say that she was completely unharmed,” Louise managed a smile at that.

“There have been no incidents since then,” Mycroft informed them.

“This isn’t a question of your capability as a parent Mr Holmes, we are here to gather relevant information and come to a conclusion about what is best for Maeve.”

 

 

 

“That went well,” Sherlock announced.

Mycroft rolled his eyes and continued to type on his phone, there were pressing matters of state to attend to. Sherlock has Maeve cradled in one long arm and was using the other to feed her, they were sat in the hallway once more on the rather uncomfortable chairs waiting for some sort of verdict.

“You handled yourself well,” Mycroft told him, pocketing his phone.

Sherlock hummed thoughtfully and focused on his task, he lifted the bottle away from Maeve in an attempt to get her to slow down. She whined and he offered it to her again, placing the teat at her lips and watching her eagerly accept it. He admitted, “I can’t lose her.”

Mycroft glanced at him, grey eyes narrowing in disconcert and he nodded once, curtly. He responded, “You won’t.”

“You’ve arranged something,” Sherlock deduced.

“A back-up plan, so to speak.”

“Why are we still here?”

“Formality.”

“Thank you,” Sherlock whispered.

Mycroft gave a small nod in understanding, it was not a sentiment that his brother was common to expressing and when it was, it was best accepted and never mentioned again.

The door opened to reveal Louise and Michelle, they stepped out and took the seats opposite the Holmes brothers. Mycroft managed a smile which was instantly returned, Louise announced, “We believe that it is in the best interest of Maeve to remain in your care.”

Sherlock simply stared at the woman in astonishment and Mycroft released a breath he hadn’t realised he’d been holding.

Michelle continued, “We understand that if anything does happen to you that should require we find suitable care for Maeve that she will go into the custody of Mycroft Holmes, we will not interfere further but will monitor and require a review when she turns six months.”

“We appreciate your co-operation.” Louise added.

 

 

 

They were stood outside the building. Mycroft lent against the clean black car watching as his brother bounced Maeve up and down rhythmically, her chin was on his shoulder and his hand rubbed her back in small circular motions. There was a muslin on his shoulder protecting his suit and a thin blanket held over her back, making sure that she was not only kept warm but protected against the warm sun.

“Will you require transportation to Baker Street?” Mycroft asked.

Sherlock shook his head but didn’t falter in his movements, “Lestrade texted about a crime scene, John is already on route.”

Mycroft nodded in understanding and instructed the driver of the change of destination. Sherlock craned his neck to glance at Maeve and smiled in amusement, she was watching the world curiously over his shoulder. He continued to rub her back until she released a series of quiet burps and finished with spitting up some milk over his shoulder onto the waiting muslin. Satisfied with the outcome, Sherlock brought her forward and manoeuvred her to rest in one arm and removed the muslin from his shoulder. There was a small amount of milky white sick on it, he folded it and used a clean corner to dab her mouth.

“Done?” Mycroft asked.

Sherlock nodded.

“Shall we?”

 

 

 

Sherlock climbed out of the car with his usual grace, taking a moment to observe the scene before him: a house and the street were cordoned off with police tape and manned with uniformed officers. There were police cars on each side of the scene and a group of people waiting outside the house, John was stood with Greg and Sally. Anderson was stood just outside the door of the house, obviously waiting his arrival and ok, to return back into the crime scene.

He turned back to the car and reached inside to retrieve Maeve from his brother’s grasp, he held her up and Sherlock brought her close to his chest instinctively. He then waited and took the changing bag and carseat from his brother, with a small nod of gratitude. He walked towards them, holding the carseat with one hand and using the other to support Maeve, the bag was hooked elegantly over his shoulder.

“Everything ok?” John asked, raising an eyebrow as he approached.

Sherlock nodded and glanced at Greg, “You have a body for me.”

“Yes, Sally will take you upstairs and I’ll wait out here with Maeve.” Greg told him.

“You sure?” John asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Yeah,” The DI answered with a smile, “She’s much prettier than a dead body anyway.”

Sherlock snorted and handed over Maeve to the older man, he took her and positioned her to sit in his arms with her back pressed against his chest, gazing out at the world with wide eyes. He placed the bag and carseat on the floor beside Greg and lent down, placing a kiss on Maeve’s head before turning and heading towards the scene. Sally led him in and John followed them both dutifully.

Maeve whined at the sight of her father walking away from her and Greg bounced her minutely, he told her, “He’ll be back in a minute, sweetheart.”

Greg continued his ministrations until she cheered up, or stopped making distressed sounds, and instead gurgled in displeasure at being abandoned by her father and left with him. The older man didn’t take it to heart, he knew that she only had eyes for her father and preferred his presence above all else. His eyes were scanning diligently over the officers roaming over the scene, paying particular attention to Anderson and the other forensics lot as they chatted just outside the door to the house, leaving Sherlock to take a look at the scene without interruption.

Maeve squealed, less than thrilled that his full attention was not on her and he shifted, lifting her further up his torso and mumbling, “yeah, I know, you need all of my attention.”

Maeve grunted in what he assumed was confirmation and he continued with a roll of his eyes, looking down at the infant with fondness despite himself, “How does your Daddy do it?”

“Cute baby,” a young officer declared as he walked by, pausing and bending down to be on level with the wide eyed child. His eyes flicked up to the D.I and he asked, “Is she yours?”

“I wish,” Greg snorted, continuing to bounce the baby in small movements in an attempt to keep her content, “She belongs to Sherlock Holmes, our consultant.”

The officer straightened up, “Yeah, I’ve heard all about him, the tall guy in the coat.”

Greg nodded in confirmation.

“I heard that he had a baby.”

“This is her, baby Maeve.” Greg introduced, “and the illustrious Sherlock Holmes is inside.”

The officer nodded, “Well, I best head back to the station.”

Greg nodded and the officer spared one more glance at Maeve before walking away, leaving Lestrade standing by the car with the mini-Holmes. He shook his head and looked down at the baby with a fond smile, “already breaking hearts.”

Roughly ten minutes later Sherlock reappeared, pausing in the doorway to wait for John and continued once his blonde companion was beside him, speaking to him in a hushed tone with a smile on his face. His eyes flicked to the Detective Inspector and his daughter, and he noticed her interest in the pavement with slight annoyance. He walked over calmly, aware that she was completely oblivious to his approaching.

He stopped a few paces in front of her and watched as she noticed his expensive shoes on the road that she was engrossed in and her eyes darted to him, completely alert and curious. Sherlock feigned an expression of shock, mouth opening into a large O shape, and was resulted with the most wonderful and unexpected reaction, a toothless grin followed by a delightful giggle. It was a beautiful sound lasting only a few seconds that brought a smile of astonishment, pride and happiness to her father’s face.

“Did she just…” John asked, trailing off at his own smile.

Sherlock couldn’t contain his smile as he plucked her from Lestrade’s arms and held her up high, in level with his face so that she could see him completely. He answered the unfinished question, “apparently so.”

“Aren’t you full of surprises today?” Greg asked, directing his question at the infant as he watched Sherlock bring her slowly down to rest against his chest, smile smaller but not fading in any shape or form.

“Genius,” Sherlock muttered against her scalp, “my daughter is a genius.”

John placed a hand on his partners back, his smile no longer that of amazement but of fondness, a smile he often found settling on his lips when he gazed upon Sherlock and his daughter in their tender moments.

“You can goad Mycroft with this now, get back at him about the smile,” John suggested.

Greg snorted in amusement.

Sherlock’s eyes widened and his head snapped up, he turned to John and placed a chaste but firm kiss to his lips, pulling back he announced, “You are perfect John.”

 “Alright!” Greg warned, wanting to get back on topic, “The murder Sherlock?”

“Murder,” Sherlock repeated as though the word had offended, “No time for murders Lestrade.”

Greg opened his mouth to protest but Sherlock had already started striding away, he resigned himself to failure and sighed. John smiled weakly at his friend and fumbled to pick up the changing bag and carseat, he told him “I’ll get him to text you when he’s settled down.”

Greg nodded and John started to walk off.

“Dinner, tonight?” He called after the blonde.

“Come over, we can order in.” John answered before ducking under the tape and following his boyfriend.

Greg sighed to himself and muttered, unable to keep the smile from settling on his face, “Bloody Holmeses.”

 

 

 

Sherlock had texted Mycroft the moment the taxi pulled away from the curb and continued his onslaught for the remainder of the day, while Mycroft kept his responses concise, Sherlock delivered quick but detailed descriptions, analysis and plain teasing about his daughter’s laughter. Eventually, the older Holmes stopped replying and Sherlock took that as a win, he’d been in a triumphant mood since, hardly keeping his eyes of Maeve and attempting to extract a similar response from her again. This time he tried the simple methods, tickling and blowing a raspberry on her small round tummy. It had worked and he bathed in the sound of her delight, revelling in the most beautiful sound, in his opinion, which existed in the entire world. The sound of his daughter giggling instantly brought a smile to his face, something he couldn’t quite contain. The innocent laughter was intoxicating and filled him with, he could only describe it as joy and pride, his insides felt warm and he felt, well happy.

He was on the floor with Maeve that evening, the smaller Holmes lain on her front on her tummy time mat, arms stretched out ahead of her and her father mirroring the position, with his head resting on his hands. He watched her in awe, not caring that he was in the middle of the floor while John was busy tidying up around him.

“She’ll get bored of you,” John warned.

Sherlock looked horrified by the suggestion and blinked up at his partner. He corrected, “She loves me.”

“She doesn’t understand the concept of love,” John snorted and picked up the empty bottle and muslin from the small table beside the chair.

“She may not understand it but she feels unconditional love,” Sherlock told him, looking back at his daughter as she glanced up at him, blue eyes twinkling charmingly.

“You could leave her with a monkey for a week and she’d love it, and forget about your existence.”

“Are you purposely trying to annoy me?” Sherlock asked, more than a little peeved.

“Nope,” John popped the p and picked up another bottle that Sherlock had left on the desk, “just trying to add some perspective.”

“Well, don’t.” Sherlock told him simply.

“Greg texted, they should be here soon.”

Sherlock said nothing.

“And you can gloat to Mycroft in person.”

Sherlock mumbled, “I don’t want her to forget about me, ever.”

John winced and placed the items he had been picking up on the desk before crouching down beside his lover and reaching out to stroke the side of Maeve’s face. He kept his voice calm and attempted to remedy the situation, “I didn’t mean anything by it love.”

Sherlock continued to look ahead at his daughter.

John continued, “Maeve adores you, any idiot can see that and I was wrong, she does miss you when you’re not there.”

“Really?” Sherlock asked, mumbling against his hand like a child.

“Greg texted, after we left the crime scene, she was upset when you left her.” John told him, “and she prefers your company over anybody else’s, I live in the same house; feed her, change her and she would still rather be with you than me.”

“Can’t fault her logic,” Sherlock concluded with a lopsided smile.

“Shut up,” John muttered affectionately and lent down to place a kiss on the consulting detective’s forehead before pushing himself to his feet. “I just wish that you’d clean up after yourself.”

“Cleaning,” Sherlock repeated, voice laced with pure hatred, “How dull!”

“I’ve invited Mrs Hudson to join us for dinner,” John told him before walking out of the room with the rubbish that he had collected.

“Mycroft’s here,” Sherlock muttered, indifferent.

John frowned and listened, there was a quiet knock followed by the front door opening and Mrs Hudson beaming at the elder Holmes and detective inspector. John smirked and walked into the kitchen, pleased that he could still be surprised by the small deductions that Sherlock made in everyday life.

Sherlock sighed melodramatically and jumped up into a crouched position, resting on his lower legs and feet as though he was praying, and reached out for Maeve. She lifted her head and smiled, gummy mouth open and started squirming in anticipation. He placed his hands under her arms and lifted, careful not to hit her head on the arches of the mat, and brought her close to his chest. She squirmed and sighed, content.

Sherlock was up in one fluid moment and twisted to face the door as his brother reached the top of the stairs and stepped into the lounge, his face a mask of indifference. Greg greeted him with a warm smile.

“Brother Mine,” Sherlock welcomed, gloating wordlessly to his brother.

Mycroft rolled his eyes and placed his umbrella against the wall beside the sofa, he sat down and looked up at his brother and niece. “You may begin.”

“With what?” Sherlock asked, feigning ignorance.

“The gloating,” Mycroft answered sounding bored. Though Sherlock knew better, Mycroft was annoyed not bored and wanted to get it over with, how dull.

“She laughed,” Sherlock declared like it was new information.

“Yes, you told me so in your texts and Gregory mentioned in the car journey over, in response to your face.”

“Not my face,” Sherlock frowned, “my expression.”

“Quite something,” Mycroft nodded. He could gather that from both his partner and brother. Gregory sat on the arm of the sofa beside his partner.

Sherlock hummed in agreement and kissed the top of his daughter’s head.

“And mere moments after I left you there,” Mycroft mused.

“She has a sense of timing,” Greg added, “certainly wasn’t that happy being left with me.”

Mycroft glanced up at him and placed a hand atop of his partners.

“Delighted to see him through,” Greg groused, “enough for her first laugh.”

Sherlock smirked at that.

“Chinese ok?” John asked, walking into the room as he dried his hands on a towel.

Mycroft gave a single curt nod, Greg answered, “sounds good.”

Sherlock did not answer the question, “I’m going to put her down.”

John nodded and Sherlock left the room with Maeve, walking down the hallway and towards the bedroom. He closed the door behind him and went about getting her ready for bed, changing her nappy and putting her in a sleepsuit. They laid down on the bed together, her on her back and him on his side facing her. He read her a page of Alice and Wonderland and stopped, remembering the page when she was snoring gently. He placed the book on his bedside table and left her on the bed, with pillows surrounding her like the sides of a cot instead of using the Moses basket. He could place her in that later when she was sound asleep. He turned the monitor on and checked the volume before leaving the room.

The three men were chatting with the newly arrived Mrs Hudson when he strolled back in and plopped into his chair, leaving the screen on the table beside him.

“I’ve ordered, it will be here any second.” John informed him.

Sherlock nodded and kept his eyes on the screen, watching Maeve shift in sleep slightly but not enough to wake herself. When he was satisfied he looked up in no particular direction and sorted the memory of her laughing into his mind palace.


	34. Seventy Days Old

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Christening day!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Behold, this is a lengthy update and I apologize because a lot of it is the christening, and may be fairly boring (which is why this has taken so long). I am not religious and know practically nothing about christenings, bar the few I've attended so i apologize if the services is not entirely correct but I had to make do with resources. 
> 
> If there is any confusion about the previous chapter I apologize; there is no way that Social services could removed Maeve from Sherlock's care because of his job but they could take her away because of his drug use, though he is not taking drugs, he had before and that makes him a risk.
> 
>  
> 
> Upcoming Chapters: 
> 
> Thirty-Five: Sherlock and John take Maeve to the country for a few days, fresh air away from the city. A fluffy family holiday.  
> Thirty-Six: Sherlock returns and take a case; a string of kidnapped rich kids and if the ransom isn't paid quick enough, they die.   
> Thirty-Seven: the latest victim turns up alive, and the unthinkable happens. (Sorry in advance for this chapter).

Mrs Hudson called up before she entered the flat carrying a tray with her butterfly tea set upon it, she paused in the doorway to look at the consulting detective. Sherlock was sat in his chair, hands steepled beneath his chin and apparently deep in thought, though he blinked and his grey eyes flicked to Mrs Hudson immediately and softened slightly, before huffing an insincere annoyed breath.

She smiled fondly at him and stepped into the living room, noting the absence of both John and baby Maeve, and placed the tray on the table beside John’s chair. His full attention was now on his landlady, watching intently as she poured milk in first, followed by the tea with an overly affectionate smile plastered on her face.

“You bring me tea in the morning?” He asked, drawing the flaps of his dressing gown around his body.

“Well, where d’you think it came from?”

“I don’t know. I just thought it sort of happened.” He lifted his arms in a vague gesture.

“Your mother has a lot to answer for.” She told him with a slightly disapproving, but fond raised eyebrow as she picked up the cup and saucer and handed them to him. Sherlock took the saucer from her in one large hand and moved it to hover above his lap, with his free hand he picked up the cup and sipped his tea.

“Mm, I know. I have a list. Mycroft has a file.”

Mrs Hudson sat herself down in the chair opposite with a giggle and clapped her hands onto her knees joyfully, her overly happy smile refusing to disappear, apparently.

“You have more than a list,” Mrs Hudson said.

Sherlock hummed in agreement and placed the cup back in the saucer, he lent across the arm of his chair and placed the tea on the desk. He turned back to Mrs Hudson and crossed one leg over the other, and admitted with a wary smile, “recent events may have redeemed Mycroft somewhat in my mother’s eyes.”

“So -” Mrs Hudson started, obviously excited and glanced around the flat, “Where is she then?”

“Maeve?” Sherlock asked as though there was some confusion.

“Who’d you think I meant?”

Sherlock shrugged, “it’s a surprise my mother has yet to descend upon us.”

“Sherlock!” Mrs Hudson scolded.

“Maeve is out, with John,” Sherlock finally asked the question, “he has taken her for a walk in the hopes of settling her down.”

“She hasn’t been up long.” Mrs Hudson said in a too high pitch.

Sherlock winced and informed her, “the christening is a disruption in her usual routine, by sleeping now, there is hope that she will be awake and happy for the ceremony.” He spat the last word in disgust.

“It’s just a christening,” Mrs Hudson told him.

“I hadn’t realised,” Sherlock drawled sarcastically, releasing a heavy sigh.

“I brought a new dress,” the older woman practically beamed. Sherlock managed a small fake smile though he had absolutely no interest in her outfit. She continued, “I caught a glance of Maeve’s dress, it’s very pretty.”

“Expensive.” Sherlock muttered as an afterthought.

“Designer?” she asked, crossing her hands in her lap.

“Dolce and Gabbana.”

“Did your mother pick it?”

Sherlock snorted and he informed her, “The dress is the only thing that I insisted upon.”

“And you?” She asked, eyes flicking over his usual black trousers and pale grey shirt, with the camel dressing gown over the top.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow questioningly. “A new suit.”

“And John?”

“Mycroft insisted,” Sherlock sniffed. He had insisted too but Mycroft had taken the liberty of taking John there one evening after work and having the tailor design something for the doctor, well he’s practically kidnapped him but at least he wouldn’t be wearing the awful suit hanging in his wardrobe.

Sherlock heard the front door open and close, softly, Maeve was asleep then. And after a few moments, as John picked her up and collected the changing bag, the soft treads as John climbed the steps, pausing on the creaking step to check on Maeve before continuing. He stopped in the doorway for a second then stepped into the room with a warm welcoming smile to Mrs Hudson. Maeve was cradled in one arm with a thin blanket over her body, her head was titled towards the ceiling and she snored softly.

“Fell asleep five minutes after we left the flat,” he told Sherlock, despite him probably being able to deduce it by the creases in the blanket and amount of drool on his daughter’s chin. They’d been gone for exactly 41 minutes and seconds. Which begged the question, where had John been for the remaining 36 minutes?

The doctor placed the bag on the floor at the foot of the sofa, it needed to be restocked.

“I’ll get you a tea,” Mrs Hudson went to get up.

John shook his head and smiled, “You sit down, and I’ll get my own once I put her down.”

“Put her in the nursery.” Sherlock instructed.

John raised an eyebrow, “the nursery, she’s never slept in there.”

“We are less likely to disturb her if she’s in there,” Sherlock informed him, speaking softly and refraining using his ‘don’t be an idiot’ look.

John nodded and went upstairs, in slow sure movements.

“He’s a good one,” Mrs Hudson announced when the blonde was out of earshot.

Sherlock released a small chuckle, “yes, he is a good one.”

Mrs Hudson levelled him with a serious look, “don’t let him go.”

“I do not intend to,” he reassured her, enunciating each word carefully as to avoid any confusion. John was going nowhere.

The ring of the doorbell cut through the quiet flat. Sherlock looked upstairs and waited for a reaction, when there was no sound of crying he sighed in relief and Mrs Hudson made her way downstairs to get the door.

“It has begun,” Sherlock muttered to himself, steepling his fingers and moving them to rest beneath his chin as he listened the footsteps of his mother and father.

“Where is my baby boy?” She asked as she reached the top step and stepped into the flat, eyes falling of her son with an expression of pure joy, the kind that often got confused with sadness, as tears began to gather in the corner of her eyes.

Violet was wearing an ivory dress with pink floral pattern and matching heels, a pink hat was perched atop of her grey hair, in its signature twist at the back of her head. Siger was matching, he knew it was his mother’s doing, in a dark almost black suit, ivory shirt and pink tie.

Siger merely rolled his eyes and stepped into the flat, glancing around and seeking out his granddaughter, he ignored his wife. Violet rushed across the room to embrace her son, unwilling to be hugged, he froze and glared over her shoulder and she gushed, “My baby is christening his baby today.”

“Leave the boy alone,” Siger sighed.

“Yes, do.” Sherlock agreed.

Violet pulled back but kept a hand on her son’s shoulder, “Where is she?”

“Sleeping.”

“But there’s so much to get ready.” Violet looked panicked.

Sherlock gently pried her hand from his shoulder and looked up at his mother, stood in front of him, “I assumed that you would prefer her awake for the church ceremony, John has put her down in the nursery until I dress her and we leave.”

“Good, yes, that’s good.” She nodded. His mother was obviously confused, too much planning.

John smiled as he came down at the stairs and allowed himself to embraced in a hug by Violet, he greeted, “Morning.”

She released John and stood in the centre of the room. “Mycroft is already at the reception venue with Gregory, making sure the arrangements are in order and that girl -”

“Molly” Sherlock interrupted.

Violet continued, “- is stopping by the church before joining then.”

Sherlock said simply, as though he was already bored, “I would hope you’d remember the name of your granddaughter’s godmother.”

In truth, Sherlock was already bored. His mother seemed to thrive for perfect in planning events and loved the involvement of the whole family, Sherlock abhorred it. All the event his mother threw we dreadfully boring and she forgot the important details, like the future godmother and father of his daughter. There were only two obvious choices for Godparents, people that were not family but would become an important part of Maeve’s life as she grew up.

 

 

 

_(MOLLY-Forty-Eight Days Old)_

_Sherlock was stood outside of the morgue, one large hand on the pram and the other on his phone as he scanned the news for any interesting cases, there was none, as per usual. Molly stepped out of the morgue and stopped in surprise, not expecting to see him today._

_“Oh, Sherlock, I didn’t know that you were coming in today.” She looked him up and down, eyes resting on the pram after a moment._

_Sherlock pocketed his phone and smiled at her briefly before his usual serious expression settled once more, “I came to ask you something.”_

_“Me?” She seemed confused and unsure._

_Sherlock nodded and informed her, “My mother is insisting on a christening, tedious affair.”_

_Molly frowned and guessed, “And you want me to come?”_

_It was Sherlock’s time to frown, this time in confusion, he thought that he had been relatively clear. He cleared his throat and corrected, “I want you to be the godmother.”_

_Molly spent a few moments processing his words, he could practically hear the cogs turning, and she opened her mouth and closed it before fumbling with her words. “You want me…” she pointed to herself, “to be Maeve’s…” she pointed to the pram, “Godmother?_

_Sherlock gave a curt nod._

_“Yes.” She squeaked._

_“Good,” Sherlock said, eyes flicking side to side rather awkwardly, he cleared his throat, “There’s a body I’d like to take a look at.”_

_(GREG -_ _Forty-Two Days Old)_

_“Can we go now?” Sherlock repeated his earlier question._

_There was a shared groan and Violet stood up, “yes, just go, anything to stop your moaning.”_

_Sherlock smiled triumphantly._

_“Thank you Mummy.” He looked up at her as she crossed the room, stopped beside his face and bent down to kiss him on the forehead. Then, she proceeded to kiss Maeve on the cheek._

_“Go on, Mycroft can take you home._ ”

 

 

_Sherlock placed Maeve in the carseat and glanced up at Greg, he was stood above watching but pretended not to be watching when he noticed, instead looking at the wall. Sherlock smirked and said, “Godfather.”_

_“What?” Greg asked and looked back down at the consulting detective._

_“I would like you to be Godfather.”_

_“Me?” He asked warily._

_Sherlock nodded and rolled his eyes._

 

 

 

Sherlock emerged from the bedroom and walked swiftly down the hallway with his suit jacket hung neatly over his arm, expertly doing up the buttons on his cuffs. He looked up at his mother, she watching him approach with a mixture of pride and joy, once again threatening to cry, which he knew would be a regular occurrence for the rest of the day.

When he stopped in front of her, for inspection, she brushed the curl that fell over his forehead to the side with a smile and then took a step back to get a good look at as he put on his jacket. It was elegant much like his usual suits; raven black with a slight shimmer in the fabric that was understated and only visible in direct light. The trousers were narrowed-legged and the jacket; a simple two-button, slim cut that sat perfectly above his shirt. It was a pale pink, so pale that it merely looked slightly off white with dark purple buttons. The colour matched exactly the dress he’d got for Maeve that was currently hanging on the door of his wardrobe.

“You look so handsome,” his mother gushed.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and turned to look in the large mirror hanging above the fireplace, he buttoned up his jacket and focused on his reflection, with a few quick stroke of his fingers his hair was sitting the way he preferred. He sighed in satisfaction and turned back to his parents. Mrs Hudson appeared in her new dress, a navy blue dress with ¾ sleeves and a large pattern of flowers in pale pink and blue.

“You look lovely,” Sherlock told her and lent down to place a kiss on his cheek before ducking past and heading upstairs in a fluid movement. He took the steps two at a time and paused in front of the door of John’s old bedroom, where the blonde was currently changing but no longer slept in, it was merely occupied by all of his stuff (not that there was a lot of it). He pushed the ajar door and peaked in.

John was smoothing down his jacket in the mirror, oblivious to his partners arrival and checking his own reflection out. The material was soft and dark with a navy and forest green checked pattern that was both subtle and show stopping. The lapels were pure black and a different material to the jacket and trousers and matched his new shiny black shoes and the black knitted tie. His eyes flicked over his reflection and settled on the consulting detective.

“I’ve got to hand it to your brother,” John remarked, turning to face Sherlock, “he knows his suits.”

Sherlock said nothing, merely watched as his lover fiddled with his cufflinks and then settled, placing his arms down beside his body and gesturing at the consulting detective with a lopsided smile. “What do you think?”

Sherlock stepped fully into the room and allowed his eyes to sweep over John, generously, he paused on his partners face and said, voice low. “You look good.”

“Good?” John raised an eyebrow, teasing.

“Hmmm” Sherlock hummed thoughtfully.

“Can you lean down?” John asked.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, “why?”

“Cause I want to kiss you but you’re too bloody tall.” John huffed.

Sherlock lent down and hovered in front of John. The blonde smiled and kissed the taller man, careful not to put his hands in Sherlock’s masterfully placed hair, instead he snaked a hand onto the back of his neck and placed the other on the small of his back. Sherlock’s hands were on his hips, grasping hard but not too hard as to ruin the line of his suit. Sherlock pulled back after a moment, anchored by John’s hands on him and gifted the shorter man with a chaste kiss before beginning to pull away. John let him go.

“Time to get Miss Muffet dressed,” John guessed.

Sherlock nodded and left the room with John close behind, hand still resting on his partner’s lower back. He cautiously opened the door and moved towards the large cot, he glanced in at Maeve, sleeping soundly and reached in without a second thought. John turned off the monitor and retrieved the supplies he had left on the changing station; a spare outfit or two, nappies, wipes, muslins, a blanket and one or two soft toys.

They went downstairs together, John first with Sherlock following. They broke apart at the bottom of the stairs, John heading into the living room while Sherlock took the door into the kitchen and followed it through to his bedroom, he closed the door behind him and placed Maeve on her changing mat. She jerked slightly but remained asleep, scrunching up her nose in displeasure.

Sherlock spent a moment simply staring at the dress, it was on a hanger on the door of his open wardrobe. The Dolce and Gabbana christening dress was made of a pale lace, a shade of pink so light that it looked white, like his shirt, with a high-low skirt that stopped higher up at the front than the back, though it made it little difference as it would be far too long on Maeve, a traditional dress. The front was plain, lace covering the entirety and small sleeves, a ribbon tied into the perfect bow in the middle; and there were matching lace booties to cover her small feet.

“Right,” he said to himself.

 

 

 

Sherlock emerged from his bedroom with Maeve cradled in his arms, she was dressed in a simple white outfit that barely reached her thighs with a bonnet and matching pants, the dress would come later after the car journey out of the city. “Shall we?”

 

 

 

The church his mother had decided upon for the ceremony was the same that he’d had his christening in, and Mycroft before him. It was relatively small but could hold a large capacity of people and Mycroft was stood at the door greeting people; friends and family alike with a firm handshake, the odd hug and kiss. Greg was stood beside him awaiting the arrival of the guest of honour, ready to usher him into the churches small private rooms to ready themselves for the ceremony. They picked matching suits; well Greg gad insisted that Mycroft get them something similar, Mycroft wore a dark three piece suit in his usual style with light pinstripes and a pale tie that was the exact colour of his partners shirt. Gregory wore a light grey suit that complimented his salt and pepper hair, with a tie in a darker shade of blue.

“That’s them now,” Greg announced, spotting the two cars with blacked out windows approaching down the road. They stopped outside the church, one directly in front of the entrance and the other a small space behind it.

He walked over to the first car and opened the door, Sherlock immediately stepped out leading with one long leg and appraised the church with critical eyes before turning back to the car and accepting the carseat from his partner. He stepped away from the car to allow John access out and held the carseat in one hand, Maeve snoozing gently inside it but shielded from the sun with a blanket resting atop of it.

Greg gestured for them to follow and took them past Mycroft into the church and around the side, avoiding the crowds gathering in the pews and through a large wooden door into a side room. Sherlock immediately placed the carseat on the table and removed the blanket, his eyes flicked over the sleeping baby then back to the door as John carried in the dress (in a proper bag) and the changing bag.

“Your mother is talking to the vicar and Siger if fighting off the legions of Holmeses.” John sniggered.

Sherlock raised an amused eyebrow and set about unstrapping his daughter in a slow but efficient manner, lifting her arms with great care and threading them through the strap until she was free. She sighed in satisfaction and relaxed further into the seat.

“Twenty minutes,” Greg informed him.

Sherlock gave a curt nod.

 

 

 

“If you can contain yourself -” Mycroft began in a hushed whisper. “- for the entire ceremony, I will allow you a free pass, so to speak.”

They were stood at the door of the small room that Sherlock had been ushered in upon arrival, now alone and waiting for John to collect them for the baptism. The elder was watching his brother as he bounced his body in regular and fluid motions to keep Maeve occupied, the latter was sat in her father’s arms, her bum using one as a seat and the other, with one large hand on her torso to keep her from falling forward. She was now clad in her christening dress. A long dress, far too long in Sherlock’s opinion, that tumbled in waves over his arms and drowned her tiny body. The shade was the exact colour of her father’s shirt, a pale pink that looked white and the entire thing was made from lace, except the ribbon at her waist which was silk.

“A free pass.” Sherlock repeated, carefully considering the words as he rolled them around in his mouth thoughtfully. He kept his eyes on Maeve.

Mycroft nodded, “I will allow you the absence of next Sunday.”

Sherlock’s eyes flicked to him and narrowed critically, “why?”

“You’ve been thinking of taking Maeve to the country manor,” Mycroft answered, removing an imaginary piece of lint from his suit.

“And the reception?”

Mycroft raised an eyebrow, “do as you wish.”

Sherlock grinned mischievously at this, his brother was essentially giving him a free pass to be his usual miserable self at the reception, deductions and all, and all he had to do in return was make it through the ceremony without insulting anyone or interrupting. It couldn’t be that hard right?

 

 

 

“Dearly beloved,” the priest began with a warm tone that reverberated off of the cold stone walls, his dark eyes hovering over Sherlock for a moment before flicking over the crowd generously. “We are honoured with the privilege of being present here today to witness and support in faith the christening of Maeve Alexis Christine Holmes; the daughter of William Sherlock Scott Holmes, born into this world on May 2nd 2010.”

At this Sherlock took a heavy breath that spoke volumes, John smirked at the consulting detective’s full name and reached over to place his hand in Maeve’s view. The infant looked at the hand and followed the arm that it belonged to, blue eyes flicking to John’s face after a moment and grasping two short fingers in her fists.

The old priest continued, “You have been invited here as family and friends as your prayers and spiritual support in the life of this child. It has been said that in a Christening, Heaven comes down and surrounds the child with God’s love for which the effect is lifelong. We join our thoughts and sincere goodwill, asking that Christ’s peace might embrace this family and are an arc of God’s light surround this child for all of her days.”

Sherlock closed his eyes and tried not to focus on the insane prattle.

Mycroft lent forward and glanced over at his brother and niece, the latter was holding onto John’s hand as though if she left go he would disappear and the former, his brother was completely focused on his daughter and attempting to mute the priest.

“Throughout our lives, we are called upon to make serious decisions.”

Sherlock’s eyes opened and he fixed them on the priest, who was looking at him with soft but intense eyes, not at all offended by the consulting detective. He knew of the circumstances then. He then looked away, gaze resting on Greg and Molly; she was dressed in by far the best outfit she had ever picked, he recognised his mother’s hand in it. It was pink dress with a large rose print, a right top with thin straps and a tube skirt, with small strappy white heels and a matching cardigan over her shoulders. 

“The decision of dedication you make today is one of the most sacred and significant you may declare. By it you confess your faith and formally dedicate yourself to our heavenly creator, pronounce your faith in our Lord and Saviour Jesus Christ, call upon the ministry of the Holy Spirit, and profess fellowship in the circle believers of Christendom.”

He continued with a prayer and verse from the bible. Then, he invited Sherlock and the godparents to stand with him, close to the font. Sherlock stood begrudgingly, forced to peels Maeve’s hands from John, which she was no happy about, she whined loudly which caused a few laughs in the pews. He pacified her by rocking her gently in his arms. He took his place between Greg and Molly, the former looked amused at how out of place Sherlock looked.

 “Sherlock Holmes will you teach Maeve the truth that from childhood she may realise her unity with God and of Christian doctrine, the gospel ministry and of the salvation by grace through our Lord and Saviour Jesus Christ? Will you try to conduct your own life so that by both word and example, Maeve may learn to live joyously and harmoniously with Christian principle and the assurance of salvation- will you strive to do this to the best of your ability?”

He looked expectantly at Sherlock and the consulting detective stared blankly for a moment, his eyes flicked to John. The blonde gave a small nod of encouragement and Sherlock looked down at his daughter, eyes flicking over the intricate waves of curves forming in her dark hair and nodded once. “I will.”

The priest nodded and continued. Sherlock shifted Maeve higher up his body and craned his neck to place a lingering kiss to the top of her head, she squirmed and attempted to look up at him. He took pity and moved her back down into her original position, so that she had more space to look up, using his chest for support of her small head and still not strong enough neck. Her blue eyes met his and her lips tugged slightly into the beginnings of a smile. Sherlock found himself mirroring the action, threatening to but not quite smiling.

The priests attention was now fully on Greg and Molly, brown eyes flicking between them. “Gregory Stephen Lestrade and Molly Jane Hooper, as Godparents to Maeve, God will give you the wisdom and ability to hold within your hearts forever the spiritual welfare of this child. You are charged with the responsibility of seeing to the spiritual welfare of this child should the need arise and it is you who stands are spiritual counselors. Do you accept this duty and charge?”

They exchanged a look, and spoke in unison, “We do.”

“Do you promise to love, honor, support and encourage the child through her life?”

“We do,” they said again.

The priest nodded encouragingly at Sherlock and he re-positioned Maeve with great difficulty due to the dress, Greg tried to hold the skirts as he shifted the baby to lay with her feet against his chest and head held in his large hands. He moved her over the font strong arms supporting her small body. The priest poured water from the font onto her forehead. She squirmed and grunted in frustration, Sherlock watched the water trickle down her forehead and into her thickening hair, making sure that the drops didn’t get her eyes.

The priest announced, “I baptize thee in the name of the Father; in the name off the Son; and in the name of the Holy Spirit; Amen.”

He moved slightly and instructed them all on what happened next in the proceedings; Sherlock, Greg and Molly all drew a cross on Maeve’s forehead with the water and repeated the following words. The former with great difficulty as he maneuvered Maeve to rest on one arm for the moment, with Greg steadying her with his hands. “In the name of the Father; of the Son; and the Holy Spirit; Amen.”

Sherlock, with help from Greg, moved Maeve into the original position so that she was sat comfortably in his arms, her head dry and hair still damp from the trickles that had fallen down.

The priest concluded the ceremony, “Maeve, from this day onward, no matter how dark the world may seem nor how alone and lost you may feel, you shall never be alone again, never without hope of assurance of final victory. You are a citizen of the Kingdom of God and body of believers of Christendom, in this world and in heaven. Our true Lord God shall always be with you; the love of Our Lord Jesus Christ shall always be your salvation through grace in faith, the Holy Spirit shall always minister to your heart and mind; and the multitude of God’s angels encompass you.” at that both Sherlock and Mycroft choked our a quiet laugh and exchanged an amused glance, the priest either ignored them or just didn’t heart them, “The light of God’s Truth surrounds you, the love of God encompasses you, the power of God protects you, the presence of God watched over you and wherever you are God is always with you. So it is and so it shall always be. Amen. Maeve, we bless you and you fill us with joy. God loves you and so do we.”

He stepped to the side of Sherlock and drew the sign of the cross upon her forehead, fingers hovering above her skin as he spoke, “May the Lord bless you and keep you; make his face upon you and be gracious unto you; lift his Countenance unto you and give you piece. In the name of the Father, Son and Holy God, Amen.”

The occupants of the church repeated the sentiment of “Amen” while Sherlock remained quiet, as did Mycroft.

 

 

 

“Can we stop this now?” Sherlock asked, irritated.

“Just a few more,” Kelly told him with a warm smile, he wasn’t surprised that his mother had decided to use the same photographer but had no expected to see her there, she wasn’t exactly to the standard that his family preferred. She obviously took good photographs. She wore a frosty grey dress with a wrap top and small sleeves that only covered her shoulders and a skirt that swished around her knees. Her bright red hair was twisted into an elegant up-do at the back of her head, the fringe pulled away from her face. She wore a lipstick to match her hair and heels the same shade.

The pictures were of him holding her in that seated position, dress tumbling down elegantly and him mainly looking down at her instead of towards the camera. He sighed, “I assume you’re following us to the reception.”

Kelly smiled and placed the camera in her bag, she slung it over her shoulder and answered, “I’m heading there now, and your mother wants some pictures of the location.”

Sherlock nodded and watched her leave. John appeared by his side, “shall we?”

“Can you take her?” Sherlock asked, actually asked. He didn’t just assume of hand her over to John.

John managed (not very well in Sherlock’s opinion) to hold back the look of shock that crossed his face and nodded dumbly in answer, he with help from Sherlock positioned her to be resting in one arm. She was cradled with her head on his chest and body supported in one arm. He used the other hand to hold the excess of dress. Sherlock shook out his arms and then placed them neatly by his side.

“Arms hurt?” John asked.

“Stiff,” Sherlock responded with an appraising look at his partner and the baby in his arms.

“You were very well behaved,” John lowered his tone.

Sherlock asked, “Even at the end?”

John snorted, “Yes, even then.”

“Mycroft.” He gave in explanation as though it was a full answer.

John frowned in confusion, “what?”

“He said that if I could contain myself through the ceremony that he’d allow us the country manner for next weekend,” he explained.

John nodded and then frowned, “but we have lunch with your parents on Sunday.”

“A free pass,” Sherlock informed him with a tight smile as his mother approached. She immediately hugged Sherlock, which he returned this time, placing his arms around her lightly. She let go quickly and set herself upon John and Maeve, kissing them both on the cheek.

“You did well,” Siger said as he settled beside his son.

Sherlock said nothing, eyes flicking from the floor to his father and back again.

“Mycroft mentioned that you wanted to change her before we move.”

Sherlock nodded, “The dress is…impractical.”

“I’ll deal with your mother.”

 

 

 

The moment Sherlock stepped into the grand ballroom there was a round of applause that startled Maeve, she immediately started crying and Sherlock thought about walking back out, instead he shifted her to rest completely against his chest and bounced her gently until she calmed down. He did this beside Mycroft and Greg, who were already talking to Molly with champagne flutes resting in their hands.

He had already changed her into her third outfit of the day; something far more practical and comfortable. An Armani dress with matching knickers in white with metallic gold heart embroidery; it had a drop waist with petticoats underneath that flounced out delicately and was perfect for a special occasion. And on her feet were small white lace booties.

“Mummy is looking for you,” Mycroft informed him.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and stepped away to look for John, content that Maeve was no longer crying. He dodged as much family members as possible, eyes sweeping over the ballroom. It was Victorian and painted almost completely in light shades with large mirrors to reflect the natural lights. His mother had used pale yellow flowers on the tables and for decoration with bees, it was marvelous. He spotted John at cake table, the cake was shaped into a bee hive with yellow icing and small bees buzzing around it.

“There you are, your mother is looking for you.” John told him the moment he stopped beside him.

“What for?” the truth was he didn’t want to know or vaguely care.

John shrugged and positioned himself so that Maeve could see him and smiled exaggeratedly, she watched him in fascination before returning the smile with one of her own; hers more gummy. There was a snap of a camera alerting them that they were no longer alone and a slightly sorry, and pleased, looking Kelly.

“There you are Sherlock,” his mother called as she approached, eyes flicking over him then to the cake, pleased with herself. Sherlock said nothing, he didn’t have to, she knew of his fondness for bees and he was well aware that she knew. “No pink.”

“I can see that,” he managed a tight smile.

“I thought that you’d like to introduce Maeve to your Uncle Edmund and Aunt Petunia.”

“No.” Sherlock said simply.

Violet wacked his arm softly and gestured in the direction of his aunt and uncle, “go.”

Sherlock look a deep steadying breath and did as his mother bid him, John came with him with a friendly smile. Sherlock did not smile. His aunt and uncle watched him approach with stable and observing eyes. Edmund resembled his father closely but was taller and broader, his own frosty hair receding and combed back to reveal a large forehead with deep set lines. He also had a moustache and beard, both of which were maintained. His aunt was tall and spidery, arms so thin they looked fragile and legs the same; her face was wrinkled more than it should have been and greying hair dyed a warm shade of blonde.

“Sherlock,” his uncle greeted lifting his champagne flute slightly.

 The consulting detective gave a nod of greeting and lent forward to kiss his aunt on the cheek, attempting unsuccessfully to avoid breathing in her ghastly perfume and a firm handshake to his uncle. He looked at John and introduced them, “this is my partner Doctor John Watson, John, my aunt and uncle, Edmund and Petunia.”

“Pleasure to meet you,” John smiled. He greeted them both with a firm handshake.

“And this is Maeve?” his aunt guessed.

Sherlock bit back his retort and nodded, “yes.”

“Well, she’s precious, isn’t she?” Rhetorical.

“How old is she?” His uncle asked, “Your father did mention but it seems to escape me.”

“Seventy Days, ten weeks,” Sherlock informed them.

“A small little thing,” his uncle observed almost critically.

Obviously, Sherlock thought to himself.

His aunt turned her attention to John, “and you work with Sherlock?”

“Yes.” John answered.

Sherlock added, “John is invaluable to me.”

John smiled at that. “I work at a local surgery but help Sherlock with cases when I can, he really is quite brilliant.”

“An army man too,” Edmund croaked.

“I was discharged,” he informed the older man.

Sherlock endorsed John with a small frown and quick words, “John worked as a doctor in the army, and he was a captain before he was shot. We were introduced through a mutual friend, they’d trained together at St. Bart’s hospital, and it’s where we met.”

John couldn’t help the smile that settled on his face at his partner’s words, Edmund noticed and nodded. Petunia asked, “And you help with Maeve?”

“Hardly,” John scoffed, “Sherlock’s brilliant with her and honestly, I’m fairly redundant, he is so attentive and well, I help out when I can but he doesn’t really need it.”

Sherlock’s cheeks lit up a brilliant shade of pink and he hid them by looking down at Maeve and whispering something to her inaudible. Petunia nodded slowly, unsure and stared at her nephew with an expression torn between disbelief and wonder. When he looked up his cheeks were still red, he cleared his throat and expressed, “John is an equal in parenting her.”

John smiled.

Sherlock turned to him and said, “Molly is itching for some time with her and I need a drink.”

The blonde nodded, they said a quick farewell to Sherlock’s relatives and ducked away.

Molly was fingering the stem of her champagne flute and talking about a body when they approached, she stopped when she caught sight of them. Sherlock announced, “Would you like to hold your goddaughter?”

“If that’s ok,” she answered.

Sherlock frowned, “of course it’s ok. Why wouldn’t it be ok?”

John sighed, “Leave the poor girl alone.”

Sherlock widened his eyes but did just that, he held Maeve out to Molly and let her take her. She gave her glass to John and cradled the baby in her arms, eyes fixed on her.

Greg proclaimed, “my turn next.”

John snorted and Mycroft was deeply amused.

Molly looked up at Sherlock, “Greg said that you made her laugh.”

Sherlock hummed thoughtfully and remembered the event, a mere four days previous. Since then he’d gotten her to laugh through physical stimulation such as tickling her or blowing raspberries on her stomach, and only thrice through no physical stimulation. It was similar to her first time, using expressions to surprise and amuse her but the last time had been in response to his physical pain, or more particularly the moment he had stubbed his toe and cursed.

“The last time was the funniest,” John started.

“John” Sherlock moaned, drawing out the word like a child trying to stop their parents from telling an embarrassing story.

“I love you but it was hilarious,” John resolved and continued with his story, “he was getting her ready for bed and mucking about -”

“I was trying to get her to focus on me from a distance, her eyes are still weak.” He grumbled.

“- and stubbed his toe on the armchair, he tripped and flailed around before he caught himself. She found it hilarious.”

There was a small burst of laughter at that and amused glances. Mycroft seemed particularly amused by the story as he raised an eyebrow and took a sip of his champagne.

“Little terror made herself sick laughing,” Sherlock muttered.

“Yeah,” John reminisced with a slight wince, “not the best ending to that story.”

“She wasn’t sick on you,” The taller man pointed out.

“Yeah, well, you’re her father than kind of stuff is reserved for you.”

“Because the little terror would never spit up on her papa.”

“Nope, she obviously likes me more.” John smirked mischievously.

Sherlock snorted and reached towards the passing waiter, he effortlessly picked up two full champagne flutes from the moving tray and handed one to John as he sipped his own.

 

 

 

“We could keep her,” Greg suggested. He was staring down at the infant in his arms as she stared back up at him, blue eyes wide and curious.

Mycroft smirked and pointed out, “and anger her father?”

“Come on, look at her, she’s so cute.” He continued.

Sherlock glared at the older man, “you have kids of your own to keep.”

“But they’re not babies,” Greg said simply.

“She will grow up,” John informed him sombrely.

“John” Sherlock gasped.

John raised his eyebrows in confusion, “she will.”

“I know,” Sherlock mumbled, “I’d just rather you didn’t say it.”

John chuckled and wrapped his arm around Sherlock’s waist, he kissed the taller man’s cheek. “We’ve got ages until she grows up.”

“And lots of firsts,” Sherlock added.

“Yes,” John agreed, “lots of firsts to experience.”

“Good,” Sherlock declared.

 

 

 

Sherlock found Mrs Hudson sitting with his father, she looked up as he approached and smiled. Without a word, he handed her Maeve and gestured for Kelly too take a picture. When it was done she kept hold of Maeve for a while and thanked him, handing the infant back to her father. Sherlock went back to John.

The blonde smiled fondly and kiss him chastely on the lips, “you are a very lovely man.”

Sherlock snorted.

John amended, “that was very nice of you.”


	35. Seventy-Five Days Old

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John enjoy their long weekend (four days) in the country with Maeve.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This update took longer than I expected. I would have updated last night if my friend hadn't dragged me to the gym mid-chapter, so you can blame her if you like. Also, I have tons of work to catch up on. But we're getting to some good stuff, so you should have the next update within a fortnight (but most likely before because I just love writing this!). 
> 
> Thank you again for all the lovely feedback - I literally couldn't write without it - and please keep it coming. 
> 
> A huge thank you to Ashley1272 whose comments motivated me to finish this chapter and helped to remind me why I spend so much time writing this.

 

The sun was shining on Greater London and the door to 221B Baker Street was left open. Sherlock stepped out into the light; wearing black slacks and a white shirt, his suit jacket hooked over his left arm. The changing bag was on his right shoulder and he was carrying a white floral Cath Kidston bag. He trotted down the concrete steps with the finesse of a dancer and hopped onto the pavement. Mrs Hudson gave him a look between surprise and uncontrollable affection, she was stood beside the open door of the range rover keeping an eye on Maeve.

“You boys have fun,” She told him.

“I’m sure we will,” John responded.

Sherlock kissed his landlady on the cheek and ducked into the gap between her and the car door, he slid into the seat behind the passenger seat, beside Maeve. She was still awake in her carseat and squirming in displeasure. He placed the changing bag on the vacant seat beside his daughter and folded his suit jacket over the back of his own seat. John placed the remaining bag in the boot, said farewell to Mrs Hudson and climbed into the driver seat. He took time with his seat belt and twisted to get a good look at Sherlock and Maeve.

“Everyone ok?” He asked

Sherlock frowned and nodded.

“Sure that you’re going to be ok in the back?”

Sherlock nodded again, this time with his ‘stop being an idiot’ expression. John nodded and turned back to the road, “off we go.”

 

 

 

“This house?” John asked, his complete attention on the road.

“Yes,” Sherlock looked up from his sleeping daughter.

“Whose is it?”

“Mycroft.”

“We’re going to Mycroft’s house?”

“Country manor,” Sherlock corrected.

“Why does he have a country manor?” John asked, glancing at his partner in the mirror.

“For weekends and days off.”

John narrowed his eyes, “that’s not normal.”

“My brother likes his luxuries,” he told John though it was not new news. “He spends less time there since he began dating Lestrade.”

“And you convinced him to let us spend the weekend there, how?”

“Good behaviour.”

John paused and realisation dawned on him. “You made a deal.”

Sherlock smiled knowingly, “I contain myself for the ceremony - the ceremony only – and I am entitled to miss a Sunday dinner.”

“You really are a genius.”

“No need to sound so surprised John,” Sherlock huffed.

 

 

 

“She ok?” The ex-army doctor was lent against the car with his arms crossed. He’d been banished from helping with a ‘stop fussing’ and ‘you are an awful doctor’ from Sherlock.

A passing family looked up at him curiously, the father gave a sympathetic smile and the mother looked at them down her nose, John smiled and nodded at them. Sherlock glared at the woman until she was forced to look away and disappeared into the service station. He bounced Maeve up and down, her head on his shoulder leaning on a muslin, she hiccupped.

“Fine,” Sherlock snapped.

“Don’t get snappy with me Mr,” John told him, raising one eyebrow.

“She seems…more settled.” He said, lowering his voice and calming his tone.

John nodded, “she hasn’t been sick again, that’s a good sign.”

He nodded and continued his movements. “Travel sickness.”

“It’s fairly regular, especially in babies.” The blonde told him. Sherlock knew this of course but he needed to hear it, they both knew that.

“The rocking motion of the car,” Sherlock added.

John nodded.

“We need to change her.”

“I’ll get the bag,” John informed him. He reached into the car and retrieved the purple changing bag, he stepped back and closed the door. He locked the car.

Sherlock waited and they walked towards the service station together. The taller man slowing his pace but keeping his strides the same length so that John didn’t struggle to keep up. They ducked inside and immediately baselined to the closest family changing room.

“Want me to take her?” John asked.

Sherlock nodded and handed her over, wary of the vomit on her clothes. John took her from the younger man and placed her with her back to his chest and watched as Sherlock retrieves a pack of disinfectant wipes from the bag and wiped down the changing table. When he was finished he placed a clean muslin on it and allowed John to lay her down. She gave an impatient gurgle and Sherlock stripped her methodically, careful not to spread any of the sick onto her skin and when he did – on her leg and around her neck – he wiped it away with smooth quick movements.

“You should change her while we’re here.”

Sherlock looked up at John and nodded. He removed her wet nappy and wiped her clean, then placed a new nappy on. John at this time put the dirty clothes in a nappy bag and retrieved a set of clean clothes from the bag. It was a small blue dress with a smiley strawberry at the bottom and a matching pair of pants.

“I’ll get us a table and some drinks,” John informed him, unlocking the door and stepping out.

Sherlock took his time picking up Maeve and resting her carefully over his shoulder, and packing their belongings away with one hand. When he was finished he left the family changing area and walked in the direction of the costa, John was talking to the barista getting them some drinks so Sherlock slid into a chair where the blonde would easily see him.

While he was waiting he placed Maeve on his lap, back to his chest and large hand across her torso in support. She looked out for a moment at the busy service station in fascination, then craned her neck back (as much as she could) to look up at Sherlock. He smiled at her and offered her his free hand, she followed it and he demonstrated that his other hand was holding her. Maeve blinked and ran her small fingers over the hand on her chest, realising that it was her father’s hand holding her firmly and began kicking in excitement.

“Cappuccino,” John told him as he placed one of the steaming cups on the table, close to the detective but far enough that Maeve couldn’t reach out and knock it.

Maeve looked up at him, blue eyes wide and smiled. She began to kick with more ferocity.

“Would you like to go to papa?” Sherlock asked her.

John placed his own steaming tea on the table and got to his feet, he stood in front of his partner and watched as Maeve reached out to him. He swooped her up, held her in both hands and then placed her in the exact position Sherlock had, sat up in his lap with one hand supporting her.

“You know what this means,” John started, entirely too serious, “she must like me more than you.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, “shut up John.”

 

 

 

“What the bloody hell do you think you’re doing?” John raised his voice.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and climbed through the gaps between the front seats, plopping himself down, with more elegance that one should have in that situation, in the passenger seat beside John. He pulled on his seatbelt and continued to look ahead.

“I could have crashed,” John told him.

“Then you should have focused on the road,” Sherlock articulated.

“You are a bloody nuisance.” John grumbled to himself. Sherlock smirked but said nothing. “She asleep?”

Sherlock hummed in confirmation.

“Should I shut up?” John asked with a raised eyebrow, glancing at Sherlock for a second before looking back at the road.

“You can continue to talk,” Sherlock answered, already in the process of entering his mind palace.

“You just won’t listen,” John guessed.

Sherlock made no response.

“Prick.” The blonde muttered beneath his breath.

 

 

 

“This place is…” John trailed off, bent over the steering wheel to get the full view of the large manor house as they drove up the gravel driveway.

“Extravagant,” Sherlock finished for him at the same time that John said, “amazing.”

They exchanged a look and both smiled.

“So, Mycroft owns this place?” John asked.

Sherlock hummed, “he inherited it from our grandfather.”

“What did you inherit?” John asked.

The car pulled up the front of the house and John turned off the engine.

“At the time, I was, well, that is to say…” Sherlock fumbled over his words. John placed a hand on his thigh and squeezed encouragingly. The consulting detective took a breath to steady himself and continued, “I was on my downwards spiral, mainly cocaine at the time but it was enough to have me written out of his will.”

“At the time, you were also cut off from your trust fund.” John deduced.

Sherlock nodded, “my parents would not indulge my drug habit. If I wanted to get high, I had to fund it myself.”

“And how did you fund it?” John asked.

Sherlock looked around for a moment, craning his neck to get a better view at Maeve – still soundly sleeping – and then back at John, his eyes full of shame and voice a mere whisper. “I utilised my abilities.”

John nodded.

Sherlock continued. “I would deduce people for profit, small things: cheating spouses and thieves. My main source of profit was illegally sanctioned poker games.”

“You counted cards,” John guessed.

The consulting detective nodded. “I would win or allow others to win.”

“You conned people for money.”

“I did what I had to to get high.”

“Did you, would you, trade…” John started, unsure.

“No.” Sherlock answered. John released the breath that he hadn’t realised he’d been holding. “I have never traded sexual favours for drugs, sometimes I would mix the two but I wouldn’t allow someone to have that kind of power over me.”

John nodded. “You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to.”

“You have a right to know these things,” Sherlock informed him, “we are together.”

“Yes.” John nodded in acceptance.

“Victor Trevor.”

“Who was he?”

“We went to university together.”

“Did he introduce you to drugs?”

“No,” Sherlock shook his head. “I started taking drugs at fifteen: cannabis and cocaine, in small doses and only occasionally, to numb my mind. Victor Trevor provided me with Cocaine when I moved to Cambridge at sixteen. I got kicked out of university and cut off from my trust fund.”

“But you’re a graduate chemist,” John voiced.

“At nineteen I began my degree at Kings College, a condition of my rehabilitation and working with the police.”

“Shall we go in?” John changed the subject, “you can tell me about it later and, maybe, I could tell you about Afghanistan.”

Sherlock nodded like an overeager child and John smiled.

“Do you want to get her or shall I?” the blonde asked.

“Can you?”

“Of course,” John lent forward and placed a soft kiss on the end of his nose.

Sherlock watched John climb out of the car. The ex-army doctor moved to the back of the car, opened the door and lent across the seat to unstrap Maeve’s carseat. She stirred but did not wake. Sherlock climbed out of the car and retrieved the keys from his pocket as John scooped up Maeve and placed her against his chest, face tilted towards his neck. Her nose scrunched up and she squirmed against him.

Sherlock held out an arm and gestured for John to join him. The blonde stepped forward and the consulting detective placed his hand on his lower back and led him towards the door. He unlocked and pushed it open.

 

 

 

“This place is amazing,” John repeated.

Sherlock looked up from his place on the bed and rolled his eyes. Mundane, he thought to himself. The bedroom was dark wood and deep red, a large four poster bed illuminated by the large windows along the furthest wall. There was a large wooden cot beside the bed that was obviously not part of the master bedrooms usual furnishing but had been added from different room.

“Did you spend a lot of time here?” John asked.

Sherlock nodded.

“Weekends? Summer?”

“Summers mostly,” he answered.

Maeve slightly in her sleep and Sherlock trailed two of his fingers over her cheek, forehead and through her thickening hair. She sighed but remained asleep.

“And this was your grandparent’s room?”

Sherlock scrunched his nose in disgust, “my grandmother preferred a room at the front of the house.”

“What do you want to do?” John asked.

“Go for a walk,” Sherlock suggested.

 

 

 

The gardens were well-maintained: long expanses of freshly cut grass and vivid flowers arranged neatly in the border, tall trees and clean pathway that wove through the gardens. In the centre, as she walked from the house there was a large ornate fountain that hadn’t been switched on in years. They walked in unison, Sherlock taking slightly smaller strides so that John didn’t struggle to keep up, and at a leisurely pace. His left hand was placed on John’s lower back, clasping at the shirt beneath his fingers and leading the blonde through the garden. He had Maeve strapped into her papoose, body facing his and other hand cradling her head protectively as she slept.

“I like it here, it’s peaceful.” John announced.

Sherlock hummed.

“I know you prefer the city” he continued, “but there’s something about the quiet of the country.”

“You grew up in the country, it’s hardly surprising that you should enjoy spending your time here.” Sherlock deduces, he inhaled deeply. “You were older when you came to the city, that’s when you discovered your love for London and decided to train there to become a doctor.”

“Right.” John nodded.

“It’s also why you enjoyed your time in Afghanistan,”

“Because it was loud?” John asked, voice tight.

“No, because of the quiet.”

“Because it was quiet in Afghanistan,” John snorted, “and I wouldn’t say that I enjoyed my time there.”

“You thrived in Afghanistan,” Sherlock corrected.

“Have you ever been?” Sherlock shook his head. “Do you want me to tell you about it?”

“It’s a beautiful country,” John started. He stopped beside a stone bench in some hedges and gestured for Sherlock to sit, the taller man sat on one side and John a few inches away, angling their bodies to face each other. “Well, when you’re sent on your first tour you expect poverty, violence and suffering because that’s all you ever see on the news and what you’re trained to expect but, it’s a spectacular place. There’s two sides to it.”

“You miss it.” Sherlock said outright.

“You knew that when you met me,” John smiled.

 _The psychosomatic limp_ ¸ Sherlock thought to himself, _Obvious_.

“You’ve never told me about…them, the people you were with, out there.”

“Do you want me to?” John seemed surprised.

Sherlock nodded. He wanted, no, needed to know everything about John – the things he could deduce and things only John could tell him – just like he needed to know everything about Maeve.

“Well,” John cleared his throat.

Sherlock listened and kept his large hand moving on Maeve’s head, brushing the soft strands.

 

 

 

“You can…cook?” John stared in astonishment.

Sherlock’s smile dropped and he looked offended at the accusation. He was stood in the kitchen, behind the large white wooden island with a steaming dish of Salmon en croute, not yet cut, in front of him. He picked up a knife and cut the pastry with precision. John stepped further into the kitchen and peaked a glance at Maeve, she was sat in her bouncy chair on the counter a short distance from her father.

“Dull, time consuming, deleted it.” Sherlock offered in explanation.

He picked up and placed a generous slice of the salmon en croute and placed it on the plate beside asparagus and fondant potatoes.

“You could cook this whole time!” John continued, “And we’ve been living on take away for the past year.”

“You are an adequate cook John,” Sherlock told him.

“Shut up.”

“I believe the words you are looking for is ‘thank you’,” Sherlock corrected him with a raised eyebrow.

“Shall I lay the table?” John asked.

“Done, you can take the plates.” Sherlock instructed. He pushed the two plates towards his partner and lifted Maeve and the bouncy chair off of the counter. She looked around in confusion and Sherlock made a big ‘o’ shape with his mouth to grab her attention.

“I hate you.” John grumbled, following the consulting detective to the table.

“Love, John.” Sherlock corrected, “You love me.”

 

 

 

Sherlock spat into the sink, put his toothbrush away and wiped away the toothpaste around his lips on a small hand towel. He opened the door into the bedroom and was confronted with the sight of John, lain on his side with Maeve beside him, gazing up at him with tired but interested eyes, as he read to her. It was a detective novel, the kind that Sherlock loathed for all reasons and John loved for the romance.

John stopped reading and frowned at the book. His eyes flickered down to Maeve and he told her in a soft tone, “Your Daddy could do better than that.”

Maeve gurgled in agreement.

“Yes, yes, he could” John nodded. He looked back down at the book and spoke, this time to Sherlock. “Are you going to stand there all night?”

“Just admiring the view,” Sherlock answered and sauntered into the bedroom. He climbed under the covers on the free side of the bed, careful not to jostle Maeve around too much. She looked at him but didn’t seemed fazed by his appearance, instead she refocused her attentions on John and reached out to him in a silent ‘keep going’ gesture.

John snorted, “Alright….impatient just like your father.”

“Particular,” Sherlock corrected.

“Impatient.” John argued.

Sherlock frowned and John went back to reading the novel, keeping his voice low and only stopping when Maeve was beginning to fight off sleep. Sherlock commanded him, “don’t stop.”

“She can barely keep her eyes open,” it was true, Maeve’s eyelids were dropping heavily and she released a long yawn.

“If you stop now, she’ll wake up and we’ll have to start all over again.”

John shrugged and continued until she was completely asleep. Her quiet snores and their calm breathing the only sounds that filled the room as the two men watched her intently. John couldn’t contain a smile at the sight of her and Sherlock’s expression was soft, eyes warm and fixed completely on her.

“Do you want me to move her?” Sherlock asked, not bothering to look away from his daughter.

“Nah,” John answered, knowing it was exactly what the consulting detective wanted to hear. “She’s no bother. I’ve only got one more chapter.”

“The computer technician did it.”

“Bastard.” John muttered beneath his breath. Sherlock heard and smiled. John smiled too, he couldn’t stop himself.

 

 

 

Maeve did not sleep through the night. Sherlock sat up with her in the early hours of the morning, cradling her in his long arms with a blanket while watching the dark gardens from the window. He had moved from the bed, not wanting to disturb John, and positioned himself on the window seat, lent against the wall with his legs bent in front of him.

“Your Papa is a brave man,” he told her, voice barely a whisper. “He went to war to help people and now, he protects us, and he will always protect us.”

Maeve whined in response.

“Yes, I love Papa too.” He confirmed.

 

 

 

When John woke he knew it wasn’t yet morning. His body ached and his mind protested as he opened his eyes. It was still dark. He reached out gently (in case Maeve was still in bed with them) but was met with cold bed sheet, he reached further and there was still no reassuring warmth. He blinked rapidly and allowed his eyes to adjust to the darkness in the room. After a moment he made out a Sherlock sized shape at the window and sat up. It was definitely Sherlock.

“What are you doing?” John asked, voice rough from sleep but tone as low as he could manage.

Sherlock twisted his neck to look at him, “couldn’t sleep.”

Sherlock turned back to the window and John swung his legs out of bed, pulling a blanket over his body in the process and got to his feet. The rugs covering the wooden floor was cold and he wanted nothing more than to lay back down and sleep, but he stood up and walked towards the window.

“You or her?” He asked.

“Both,” Sherlock answered.

John picked up another blanket from the end of the bed and placed it over his partner’s shoulders, the house was old and the bedroom cold. Sherlock lent back into his partners arms like a cat seeking its owner’s attention. Maeve was sleeping in his arms.

“You okay?” John asked.

Sherlock nodded.

“Sure?”

Sherlock didn’t answer. He hated repetition. John lent down and placed his chin on Sherlock’s head.

“You’ve been doing well recently,” John told him. Sherlock stiffened slightly and John moved his head to his partner’s shoulder, wedging himself behind the consulting detective who welcomed the movement by angling his body away from the wall and relaxing into John’s solid for. He added for clarification, “sleeping.”

“I only manage a few hours,” Sherlock admitted.

“Then why do you stay in bed?”

“You’re there and you want me to eat and sleep properly.”

“Yes” John answered, “But I know you, you only eat when you need to and sleep even less.”

“I, well, I thought that was what you wanted.” Sherlock told him, still focusing on the gardens outside. “Me to be more normal.”

“I don’t want you to change – cleaner, yes; more polite, yes – but you can’t change your sleeping pattern. I know you have trouble sleeping. You crash when you need sleep, it’s how you work.” John informed him, sighing softly, “And normal, normal boring.”

Sherlock hummed.

“Any reason you’re sitting here?” John asked.

“Watch.”

John did just that, he watched. The pair of them waited, wrapped up together in blankets with baby Maeve sleeping soundly, until the first glimmer of light appeared on the horizon behind the shadows of the trees and long expanses of garden. They watched the sun rise with abundance of colour until the room was full of light and the garden shedding its coat of dew in way for another beautiful summer day.

“Beautiful,” John said.

Sherlock hummed.

“I wasn’t talking about the sunrise,” John teased.

Sherlock snorted.

 

 

 

“Let me get this straight,” John said. He was spread out on his back across the large picnic blanket wearing a pair of denim shorts and a short sleeve checked shirt. A pair of sunglasses stopped the sun from reaching his eyes. “You solved your first case at nine?”

Sherlock hummed. He and Maeve were shaded from the sun by a picnic umbrella, both laying down on their fronts. Sherlock had shed his shoes and socks but wore his usual attire, a pair of dark blue slacks and a white shirt. “Nobody believed me of course.”

“Well, I can just imagine.” John raised his eyebrows, “a nine year old showing up at a crime scene and demanding to be listened to, did they arrest you?”

“Not that time, no. They sent me on my way.”

“And the next time?”

“I was less…agreeable.”

“They arrested you.”

“The proper term is taken in custody” Sherlock informed him, “They briefly considered that I was involved but thought better of it when they looked at the stab wounds, there was no plausible way I could have done it.”

“Did Mycroft bail you out?”

Sherlock snorted, “My brother was sixteen John, and he had the money but not the means to bail me out.”

“God, your parents must have some great stories.”

“Yes, well, I like to keep things interesting.”

“What did they say?” John pressed.

“My father was livid, as you can imagine, my mother, well, they both questioned the conduct of the police force.”

“They what?” John sat up in a quick movement and fixed his partner with a stunned look.

“I was nine, the police took me into custody and assumed I was a runaway from one of the local homes.”

“Getting away with murder at a young age.”

“Something like that,” Sherlock smiled.

 

 

 

“If you break her, you’ll have to buy me a new one.” Sherlock informed John.

“I won’t break her,” John comforted him.

Sherlock watched as the older man raised his daughter above her head and brought her down again in swift motions as though she were flying. He cleared his throat and tried again. “I was unclear. Stop. Or you’ll clean up the sick and have to give me CPR.”

“You’re hardly going to die,” John told him as he stopped the movement and brought the infant to his chest.

“Then why is my heart racing?”

“Worrywart,” John stuck his tongue out at the younger man. “Maybe you’re in love.

“Or scared you’ll break my daughter.” Sherlock articulated with wide eyes.

John turned to Maeve and told her dramatically, “your daddy is NO fun.”

 

 

 

“Do we have to leave tomorrow?” John asked.

“We can’t stay here forever.” Sherlock told him.

“We could.”

“It is nowhere near as nice in the rain.”

“You have a point,” John conceded, turning onto his back. Sherlock followed and wrapped his limbs around the shorter man like an octopus. “Tomorrow: back to London.”


	36. Seventy-Nine Days Old

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John are back from their weekend away, and hit the ground running with a new case.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please, do not forget to comment and tell me what you're thinking. Thank you once again for all your lovely comments and if you haven't already, please have a look at my other fic, Ideal Uncle, which follows the same story from Mycroft's pov. 
> 
> And, as a treat, I post small snippets from my fics on social media sites before I update them. If you are interested then get in contact and I can give you my username for whichever site you want.

They stumbled through the door, both getting caught in the frame before squeezing through and stepping into the flat. Sherlock sighed rather dramatically and lifted the car seat onto the coffee table – which had been cleaned in his absence along with the rest of the flat, excluding his bedroom, the door was closed – and John dropped the bags onto the floor. He rubbed a hand over his forehead and through his hair.

Sherlock unstrapped and picked Maeve up, drawing her close to his body. “We’re home sweetheart.”

“I’ll go and get the rest then.”

Sherlock hummed absentmindedly in response.

“Prick.” John muttered beneath his breath.

Sherlock either didn’t hear or ignored him. John favoured it was the latter but wandered back downstairs to collect the last bag and the pram while his partner settled on the sofa. He placed Maeve firmly upon his lap in a seated position and retrieved his phone from his pocket, he started tapping away while his daughter looked out at the flat with bright interested eyes.

“That’s all of it,” John declared upon his return.

“Hmm, oh, yes, thank you John.” He was too focused on his phone to hear him, responding to texts with one hand and using the other to support Maeve, holding her up against his body. She seemed quite content, eyes flicking up at the blonde and smiling; displaying her gums to him.

John smiled and knelt down, offering the infant his hand. She took it, taking two of his fingers within her small fists. He glanced up at Sherlock – still staring intently at his phone; brows furrowing and mouth contorting into a thin line – and then focused back on his attention back on Maeve.

“Is your daddy ignoring us?” He asked her.

She squirmed in excitement and kicked her legs.

“You,” Sherlock voiced, still preoccupied with his phone.

“What?” John asked, confused.

“You, John, I’m ignoring you.” Sherlock corrected. “Not her.”

“That’s lovely.” Sherlock hummed again and John sighed loudly. “What’s so interesting anyway?”

“Case.” Sherlock finally looked up from his phone and blinked for a moment before looking down at John and Maeve.

“Interesting?”

“Promising.”

John nodded in understanding.

“Do you think Uncle Greg will let us work the case?” Sherlock asked Maeve, tone instantly softening.

Maeve heard and felt her father speak. His deep voice rumbling in his chest against her back and searched around inquisitively for the source, she looked at John then craned her neck to get a look at her father.

Sherlock smiled at her and lent down to place a kiss on the top of her head. “Clever.”

John looked up at his partner, “you working the case.”

“It’s only a matter of time.”

“Greg hasn’t asked you.” John deduced.

Sherlock smirked – a proud smirk that suggested he was pleased with John and his attempts at deductions – and ran his free hand softly over Maeve’s head. He told him, “Greg took the case over the Friday, he didn’t want to disturb our weekend away, so it’s only a matter of time.”

“Wait,” John picked up the newspaper from the top of the pile that Mrs Hudson had left on the coffee table, and pointed to the front page, “Are we talking about this case?”

“Yes.”

“A serial kidnapper.”

“Four victims held for ransom for the sum of five hundred thousand pounds.”

“The parents are paying the ransoms.” John skimmed over the paper.

“Of course they are, they’re wealthy and would give the world to have their child returned to them safely.”

“But he’s been killing them.”

“Three out of four.”

“Why?”

“Why does anyone do anything?” Sherlock asked.

John stared at his partner. Sherlock revealed nothing in his firm gaze, so he guessed, “he’s bored.”

“Or…” he prompted.

“Or, he’s…” the blonde considered it, and recalled what Sally Donovan told him at their first meeting. He frowned, “he gets off on it.”

“A sadist.” Sherlock nodded, lip pulling up into a slight smile and eyes twinkling. “The torture would suggest as much.”

“How do you know this?” John asked curiously.

“The police and parents have revealed very little about the circumstances of the kidnappings, there is a lack of detail that is very telling, there are statements that collaborate that the ransoms were paid. If the ransoms were paid, the question begs, why did he kill them? He had a reason or an impulsion to kill, he’s profited two million pound in the past fortnight, and again, why does he kill them? He wants the money but the urge to kill is overwhelming and without it, he cannot function.”

“And he’s just going to continue this?” John asked, horrified. “Kidnapping, torturing and killing kids?”

“Teenagers,” he corrected, “all the victims were aged sixteen and above.”

“That’s hardly the point.” John scoffed.

“But it is.” Sherlock told him. “He does not favour a particular gender but sticks to strict age boundaries, sixteen and seventeen year olds from privileged backgrounds and exclusive schools. He will continue until he is sated or killed.”

There was a moment of silence. “He won’t ever be sated will he?”

“Sadists rarely are,” Sherlock sighed. “They’re desires grow and the severity of the sadistic act increases over time.”

“So the only hope is to find him before he kills again?” John asked and Sherlock nodded. “But, why was one of the victims found alive?”

Sherlock shrugged.

“You don’t know?” John asked, surprised.

Sherlock shot him a stern look, “I don’t know everything.”

“And you think Greg will ask you to work the case?” John asked, then sighed and continued, “of course he will. He’ll want this whole thing dealt with as quickly as possible.”

“Speak of the devil.” Sherlock muttered and cast a glance at the window.

The front door opened and closed, and was followed by hurried footsteps on the stairs. Greg appeared in the doorway looking rather flustered and slightly out of breath, his eyes darted over John and Maeve, then settled on Sherlock. “The…”

“Kidnapping case,” Sherlock finished for him.

“Will you come?”

Sherlock nodded and rose to his feet, holding Maeve against his body with one hand. She looked around at the movement, startled but decided that she was safe in her father’s grasp and squeal – somewhere between delight and annoyance at being moved so quickly. Sherlock looked down at her and rolled his eyes (amused). “The last body was discovered yesterday.” Sherlock said, he did not ask.

“Yes,” Greg answered, nodding his head dumbly. “Hope Stewart.”

“No DNA on the body, fingerprints at the scene.” Again, it was a statement and not a question.

“He dumped the body there. In and out, nothing at the scene or on the body.” he confirmed.

“Ten minutes.” Sherlock told him.

“Will you be taking a taxi?” Greg asked.

“Waste of time,” Sherlock shook his head, “he’s escalating otherwise you wouldn’t be here.”

“Robert Innes was reported missing yesterday night, his parents received a call ten hours later, as per MO, the same amount of money. If he follows pattern we have eleven hours till we find his body.”

“John.” Sherlock said.

“The baby bag,” John nodded and rose to his feet. He began rushing to prepare the bag.

Sherlock rushed into the bedroom and appeared a few minutes later with a freshly changed Maeve.

“Do you want to look at the body?” Greg asked.

Sherlock nodded.

The grey haired man picked up the carseat and walked downstairs, Sherlock and John followed. The grey BMW was parked directly outside the house with Sally in the passenger seat, on the phone, she looked up as they approached with a tight smile – forced because of the circumstances – and continued talking.

Greg put the pram in the boot and Sherlock strapped Maeve into her carseat in the middle seat, he and John climbed in either side of her. Maeve whined but Sherlock hushed her softly.

“You’ve got theories.” Greg said as they pulled away from the curb.

“Sexual sadist, the torture he inflicts is pleasure to him, he’s chosen to profit from it.” Sherlock told them. “The choice of victims is telling; he chooses men and women between the age of sixteen and seventeen, the object of his rage or desires, in this case, would have been the same age when the fixations began. He may or may not have acted on this but there will be previous convictions of a violent nature.”

“And sexual?” Sally asked, “Sadist enjoy inflicting pain on their partners, right?”

“Yes.” Sherlock caught her eye in the mirror. “His partners may be consensual but the progression of his sadism would result in violent acts.”

“And you’re sure that he’s a sadist?” Greg asked, eyes fixed on the road.

“There is no other explanation for his torturing the victims.”

“Maybe he just likes torturing them.”

“Nope, there is absolutely no possibility.” Sherlock informed him. “Why else would he kill the victims despite the ransom being paid? He can’t control his impulses, he gets carried away. Their death is his…sexual gratification.”

“Right.” Greg nodded.

“So, he’s not going to stop.” Sally confirmed. “Unless he’s caught that is.”

“No.” John answered this time with a tight smile.

Sherlock looked down at Maeve and placed his hand upon her body. She looked at it and then continued to look around, squirming slightly in her seat.

 

 

 

“Ten hours, thirty-six minutes.” Sherlock glanced at his watch and followed the grey haired man down the corridor towards the morgue. He held Maeve close to his body and stood outside of the door when Greg walked in to inform Molly of their arrival.

“I’ll wait with Maeve,” John said.

Sherlock wanted to protest but nodded and handed her to him. The blonde gestured to the other door, that lead to a viewing area and Sherlock nodded in understanding. He walked into the morgue and John round to the separate are; he held Maeve and watched through the glass as Sherlock stepped close to the body on the table. He could hear every word that they said.

 

 

 

“Is he alright?” Sally asked on the car journey to New Scotland Yard. She glanced in their rear-view mirror at Sherlock – he was still and staring out of the window with his hand resting on his daughter, both of her hands resting on his – and then to John.

“He’s thinking,” John explained.

“Does he do that often?”

“Think? Yes. Ignore everyone? Yes.” John answered with a long sigh. “He ignores me daily.”

“And you’re fine with that?” She asked.

John snorted, “He’s put me on mute.”

“Mute?” She asked with a small smile tainting her lips.

“Yeah, like he’s pressed a button in his head and can no longer hear me.” The blonde explained. “He does it to Mrs Hudson on a semi-permanent basis and Greg almost all the time.”

“Explains why he doesn’t listen to me.” Greg voiced.

“If you had something interesting to say, perhaps I would listen,” Sherlock informed them in a velvety tone.

“You manage to pay her attention,” Donovan seemed impressed.

Sherlock hummed, uninterested. “She does require my constant attention but is far less work that the rest of the population. Besides,” he sighed, “she helps me think.”

“A conductor of light.” John added.

“Exactly.”

 

 

 

“The missing boy -” Sherlock asked.

“Robert Innes.” John supplied.

“His parents are where?”

“They’re down the hall,” Greg answered.

Sherlock was stood with his arms over the table, leaning forward with his attention on the photographs from the locations where the bodies were discovered. He had abandoned his suit jacket and rolled his sleeves to his elbows. “I need to speak with them.”

Greg nodded and gestured to him to follow. Sherlock paused and plucked his daughter from John’s arms, she was fed and burped and followed the DI down the hallway, John following behind with Donovan. The grey haired man knocked softly on the half-open door to alert them to their presence, then stepped in with a small smile in greeting at the man and women sat against the furthest wall. They were well off, that much as obvious from their appearance (not to mention to victims MO) and sat, their hands resting atop of each other on the wife’s knee.

“Mr and Mrs Innes, this is Sherlock Holmes and Doctor Watson.” Greg introduced. “They’re consulting on your son’s case.”

“You’re the consultant,” Mr Innes said, recognition dawning on his face. “The one from the papers.”

Sherlock nodded and took a seat to the left of them, angling his body towards them and keeping Maeve fixed firmly against his chest. “You’re paying the ransom.”

Mrs Innes nodded eagerly. “We just want him back.”

“How long will it take for you to get the money together?”

“A couple of hours.” Mr Innes said.

“And the call, he called you directly, the man responsible?”

“Yes,” Mr Innes answered, “we’ve gone through this all before.”

“Yes, but I prefer to hear it from you and not second hand.”

“He used some sort of voice thingy.”

“To disguise his voice, did it make it deeper?” Mr Innes nodded. “And, what did he say?”

“He said that he knew Robert hadn’t come home and he knew why.”

“And his instructions.” Sherlock prompted.

“Five hundred thousand if we wanted to see him again.”

“You are aware that three of the victims were killed, yes?”

Mrs Innes nodded and started sobbing. Mr Innes rubbed her hand gently and answered. “They told us that it depends on the time and the faster we get the ransom the more likely we are to get him back.” He left out ‘alive’.

“The man responsible for this, the man holding your son,” Sherlock cleared his throat, “he would have been watching your son, that means you may have seen him at some point, I’d like you to think back and inform one of the PC’s of anyone that strikes you, anything will help, and if we can get an accurate description then we may be able to ID him.”

Sherlock rose to his feet and Mrs Innes stood up at the same time. “Mr Holmes.”

Sherlock focused on her, “yes.”

“You’ll bring him back for us,” she pleaded, eyes still full of tears, “you understand, you’re a father yourself, you must understand.”

“I will do my utmost to bring your son back to you,” he promised with a forced smile.

They left the room and Sherlock released a breath. John placed a hand on his shoulder and rubbed gently.

“You did good.” John told him and the taller man nodded. “Want me to take her?”

Sherlock shook his head. “I need…” he looked around and lowered his voice, “I need her close.”

“Ok,” John responded, his voice matching his partner’s in volume. “What do we need to do?”

“We get the ransom here and when he calls, I need to speak with him.”

John nodded and glanced at Greg, he nodded in agreement.

“And now?” Sally asked.

“I need to look over the files again.”

She nodded and followed him back towards the room they were using as a base for this case.

 

 

 

“Nothing.” Sherlock snapped. He threw a file across the room. A few sheets of paper flew out but the majority of it hit the wall with a resounding thud before it fell apart and the papers floated towards the ground like autumn leaves falling from the tree.

Maeve jerked at the sound.

“There has to be something.” Sherlock cried out in frustration. He placed his hands on his hips and looked around the room, everyone though use to his antics had stopped and looked up at him.

Maeve’s lip quivered for a moment and she began to cry.

“For goodness sake!” Sherlock muttered more to himself than anyone else. John went to get up but Sherlock held up a hand and stated, “Its fine.”

The consulting detective quickly ran hand through his curls and swooped her up from her pram, cradling her head in one hand and his body in the other. He bounced her gently and whispered into her ear, “Shhh… you’re fine, you are absolutely fine. Daddy didn’t mean to shout.”

He placed a kiss on a spot above her ear and didn’t stop muttering to her until she had stopped crying, now only releasing the occasional sniff and worried breath.

“You should take her home.” Greg told him tiredly.

“I need to be here when he calls.” Sherlock said, exhale noisily.

Greg nodded knowing that would be the answer. “I could get someone to collect her.”

Sherlock shook his head. “I need her here.”

There was more emotion in his voice uttering that one short sentence than Greg had heard from the consulting detective over the course of an entire weekend – he was pleading, Sherlock Holmes was pleading – and Greg managed a stunted nod. “I understand but it would be-“

“I can’t.” Sherlock interrupted. His eyes flicked over the occupants of the room, Sally had lowered her head and was pretending (badly but with good intentions) to look at the case file while Anderson looked out of the window. “I can’t imagine what these parents are going through, and, I can’t, I won’t be able to think if she’s taken away from me.”

“She shouldn’t be here,” was all Greg said on the matter.

“I will take her home the moment the phone rings and I talk to him, you can arrange the meeting points and ransom drop, and I won’t come back until you call me.” Sherlock promised, grey eyes unwavering.

“Fine.” Greg sighed, speaking softly. “But the moment I say otherwise.”

Sherlock nodded eagerly like a child that had bargained for an extra ten minutes at bed time and Greg reached out to touch the younger man’s arm, running it over his bicep in a comforting motion before dropping his hand back to his side.

“Anything” he turned back to the room and gestured wildly, “has anybody got anything of any use?”

“The victims, what were they doing before they were taken?” John asked.

“They were out, at parties and Hope, was returning from studying late at a friend’s house, she left at eleven.” Sally told him, pausing only to look at files and clarify the information.

“I’m assuming they didn’t walk,” John thought aloud.

“They caught cabs,” Anderson informed him, picking up the file of phone records, the last calls (to local cab companies) circled in yellow highlighter.

“Different companies,” John said, annoyed with himself.

“Yes, but same circumstances.” Sherlock pondered. “Let’s assume that they were being followed.”

“You expressed as much,” Sally said with a nod.

“They called for cabs and what?” Sherlock looked over them expectantly.

“Waited?” Anderson guessed, unsure of himself.

“They waited,” Sherlock nodded, “outside, alone.”

“So he just walked up and grabbed them when they were alone?” John asked.

“He wouldn’t have to,” Sherlock answered. “If he had a weapon, which would have been enough to keep them silent and get them to his vehicle, assuming he had parked it close by.”

“We need to get CCTV images, the last time our victims were seen.” Greg instructed.

“We have eye-witness accounts,” Anderson suggested.

“Nobody saw anything.” Sally said.

“Start with Robert, he is our top priority. I want to see his last movements, where the party was and when he left, the surrounding streets. Then, the others, I want to see him and I want to see the vehicle.”

Sally nodded and got to her feet. She left the room.

“He hasn’t phoned, why hasn’t he phoned?” John asked.

“Robert must not be playing,” Sherlock articulated.

 

 

 

There was no phone call.

There was a text message.

Wildy & Sons ltd, fleet street. Put the money inside the bin and leave.

Sherlock was true to his word and five minutes later he and John were in a cab on the way to Baker Street.

 

 

 

“Everything ok?” John asked.

Sherlock put his phone on the bedside table and answered, his voice low as not to disturb his sleeping daughter. “He paid someone to pick up the money and leave it somewhere else, there was no description and it was done on a burner which he’s dumped.”

“He’s got the money.” John said in disbelief.

“And Robert.”

“Are you sleeping?”

Sherlock nodded. “In a little bit.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter: Sherlock continues to work the case, the latest victims turns up alive and...I don't want to spoil it for you!


	37. Eighty Days Old

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John continue to work the case.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This took forever; I've spent the whole day on the last half of this chapter, an absolute nightmare and still not sure if I'm happy with it. Also, this week has been super busy.
> 
> I've had some absolutely lovely comments, so thank you!   
> And please do not hate me!!

John stepped out of the bedroom, freshly showered and dressed in a pair of clean jeans and a red shirt, the top button left undone. He marched down the hallway with purpose and stepped through the kitchen into the living room, Sherlock was already dressed and up, violin perched on his lap and plucking the strings distractedly as he stared into space, eyes fixed absently on a spot on the wall. The notes reverberated with a kind of repetitive hum that stimulated his brain and kept his hands busy.

Maeve was in her bouncy chair in front of him. She kicked and waved her hands in excitement with each pluck of the string as Sherlock used one of his sock clad feet to rock the chair in small springy movements.

“Morning Sher,” John greeted, not expecting a response. “Maeve.”

The infant reacted by glancing around the room in search of the noise, impaired by her position in the chair and John took pity on her, and moved to the side so that she could see him. Her excited movements doubled and he unstrapped her quickly, pulling her into his arms. She sighed against his neck and continued with kicking against his chest.

“Yes, thank you Miss, less of the kicking.” He told her in a stern but soft voice. She continued.

“Is daddy thinking?” He asked her. She grunted in response. “Your Papa will take care of you.”

“Clothes.” Sherlock muttered like he wasn’t aware that he was even speaking, still lost in his mind and not focusing at all on his surroundings.

John looked at the small pile of clothes on the sofa and nodded, “time to get dressed then.”

When he’d wrestled her into the white romper dress with a small pattern of gold clouds and stars, he settled her firmly on his lap and picked up the newspaper. “Current affairs?” he asked her, she looked up at him with a gummy smile, “gossip? What do you fancy?”

 

 

 

“He was alive,” Sherlock announced, finally rousing from his thoughts and looking up, slightly dazed.

“Hmmm” John replied, looking over the top of his paper.

Sherlock blinked and looked down at the unoccupied bouncy chair, his eyes widened and he frowned, eyes darting around the room. “Maeve?”

“Oh,” John said quickly, he closed and folded the paper. He placed it on the empty space beside him to reveal Maeve, sat on his lap with her back against his chest and eyes now seeking out her father. “We were reading the paper.”

Sherlock considered it for a moment and nodded hesitantly, hands abandoning his violin and steepling beneath his chin.

“What do you mean?” John asked and repeated, “He was alive.”

“Lestrade called; Robert Innes was found alive.”

“Bad shape?” John asked.

Sherlock hummed. “Broken ribs, suspected punctured lung, superficial damage to his face and four broken fingers, a sprained wrist and dislocated ankle.”

“God.” John winced sympathetically.

“I need to question him.” Sherlock declared.

“Greg waiting for us at the hospital?” John asked. Sherlock nodded.

 

 

 

Greg and Sally loitered purposefully outside the private hospital room, they both looked up as Sherlock, John and Maeve approached with tight encouraging smiles.

“He’s in bad shape,” Greg told them, “we haven’t been able to get anything out of him yet.”

Sherlock nodded in understanding.

“What have the doctors said?” John asked.

“He’s lucky somebody found him when they did.” Sally answered.

“Why was he left alive?” Greg asked.

“Unfortunately, only Robert can tell us that.” Sherlock sighed.

“Can I hold her?” Greg asked, looking up at the consulting detective with imploring eyes.

Sherlock nodded and John lifted up the carseat that she occupied. The detective inspector unstrapped and scooped her up, holding her up for a second before bringing her to his chest, holding her bum with one hand and her back with the other. She made no sound but sighed the moment her face met the juncture of his neck. “Just needed a cuddle,” he explained.

“Sometimes seeing something good, something innocent, helps with the bad.” Sally said.

Sherlock nodded in a slow, unhurried movement.

The door to the private room opened and a doctor stepped out, his looked slightly confused at the sight of the police officer holding the baby but kept himself composed. “He’s awake, I’m not sure he’ll be able to tell you much but I understand that this is a matter of importance. But try not to strain him too much.”

Greg nodded and smiled apologetically at Sherlock, who took Maeve and then handed her to John. They stepped into the hospital room and nodded at Mr and Mrs Innes, sitting in plastic chairs beside his bed.

Robert Innes cracked his eyes open and looked up at the new arrivals. His face was a mess of purple and blue, nose red and bloody, a gash above his eyebrow and eyes swollen. He coughed.

“Robert,” Greg spoke with a loud authoritative yet, soft and caring tone. His brown eyes flicking over the boy in the hospital bed, he swallowed audibly, throat constricting. “We understand that this must be difficult for you but we need to ask you a few questions. We’ll need your help to find the man who did this to you.”

Robert managed a nod, a small movement almost too small to be seen, and obviously painful.

“You were taken when you were leaving a party, is that correct?”

Robert nodded and croaked, “h-he had a knife.”

“We suspected as much,” Greg nodded. “Did he say anything?”

“That I-I had to be qu-quiet or he’d cu-t me.” Robert struggled. “He forced me in-into a car.”

“Do you remember the make or model, colour?” Sally asked, she was already noting down everything that he said.

Robert shook his head and focused on Sherlock. “Is that a b-baby?”

Sherlock manged a small smile, “this is my daughter.”

“You-your that cons-sulting detective,” he recalled, wincing.

“Yes, I’m consulting on your case.” He informed him. “Do you know where he took you?”

Robert shook his head. “He put me in the b-boot.”

“We suspect the man we’re dealing with is a sexual sadist” Sherlock told him. “He enjoys the pain he inflicts and has little care about the gender of his victims, but he left you alive, do you have any indication why?”

Mr and Mrs Innes looked scandalised but Robert was quick to answer, as quickly as he could manage. “He said th-that I was boring, n-not like the others.”

“The others?” John asked.

“Yee-ah. He prefers the g-girls.” Robert answered.

“When he moved you, were you in his boot again?” Greg asked.

Robert shrugged and cried out at the movement, he ignored his horrified mother to answer. “I c-can’t remember, I must have lost con-consciousness.”

“Did you hear or see anything that would suggest that he had another victim?”

He shook his head. “He listened to the radio.”

“The radio, did you recognise the channel?” Sherlock asked.

“BBC London.”

“Are you sure?”

Robert nodded. “There were news updates about the kidnappings, I and that you were working the case.”

“He knows that I’m involved?” Sherlock asked.

“Yes.”

“And did he seem angry?”

“He started breaking things, I-I couldn’t see but I could hear h-him, he started hitting th-things.”

“Like punching and kicking or with some kind of instrument?” Sherlock pressed.

Mr Innes stood up and asked, “Is this really necessary?”

“If you want to find the man responsible,” Sherlock answered.

“And the way he broke things is important?” Mr Innes asked, anger building and face glowing red.

“Yes,” Sherlock answered somehow managing to keep his cool, his tone level. “If he used his hands, then there will be contusions across his hands and possible broken bones, this could help us to identify the man that kidnapped and for all intents and purposes, tortured your son.”

“By the marks on his hands?” Mrs Innes seemed both horrified and surprised.

“Yes,” Sherlock gave a curt answer.

“It sound-ed like he used his hands,” Robert informed him.

 

 

“I need to see where he was found,” Sherlock commanded.

Greg nodded and gestured towards the silver BMW.

“The forensics team have just finished photographing and are now documenting the scene,” Sally informed them, climbing into the passenger seat. She plucked her phone from her pocket and began texting.

“She ok?” John asked, nodding at the infant seemingly attached to his partner’s front.

“Tired.” Sherlock answered. He craned his neck to get a better look at her face, her eyes were drifting shut and mouth slowly parting with her soft breath.

“Need a moment?” Greg asked, pausing with his hand on the top of the car and open door.

Sherlock nodded and John mouthed a quick ‘thank you’ at him. The grey haired detective climbed into the car and closed the door, leaving the pair outside with the child.

“You’ve got ideas,” John voiced.

Sherlock hummed and he rocked slowly from side to side, holding the infant tight against his chest and watching as with each passing moment she fell into a deeper and deeper sleep.

“What are we going to do with little Miss then?”

“She’ll stay with us,” Sherlock told him.

John nodded, “what are you thinking?”

“This is more than just pleasure,” Sherlock articulated, “he’s in it for the money, we’re looking for somebody with a similar background to the victims, his parent, most likely his mother, married into money. He wants the lifestyle but he hates it, he hates his victims or the original victims he’s attempting to recreate.”

“So we look for clues at the scene, anything that can lead us to this…man!” John hissed the last word, obviously wanting to replace it with something more vulgar but stopping himself last minute with a glance at the snoring baby. “He must have tools of some sort that he uses and transports.”

Sherlock nodded and John opened the car door for him.

 

 

Sherlock stared out of the car window deep in thought and rested his hand absentmindedly on his daughter, not applying any weight, just touching her with his palm, fingers tightening in minute movements in the fabric of her dress – reassuring himself that she was still there and grounding his thoughts – as Greg pulled up the car and turned off the engine. The grey haired man glanced back with a tight smile and nodded to Donovan, the pair climbed out of the car and settled on the pavement beside a group of officers and forensic workers.

“Sherlock,” John said softly, not wanting to shock him from his thoughts too violently. “Do you want me to stay with her?”

Sherlock blinked and refocused on his surroundings. They had parked outside an old terrace house with the windows boarded up and the front door hanging haphazardly on its hinges, cordoned off with police tape. He shook his head and turned to face the pair; his partner and daughter. John was smiling at him – a soft smile, both reassuring and friendly, one that often settled on his features – and his hand was resting on the side of the carseat. “No,” the detective voiced, “your input will be useful.”

“Was that a compliment?” John asked, teasing, his eyebrows raising.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “I compliment you all the time.”

His eyebrows furrowed, “when?”

“The other night,” Sherlock recalled.

John frowned and rolled his eyes in realisation, he informed him “In bed doesn’t count.”

“So, you evoking the power of deities instead of using my name, is not a compliment?” Sherlock asked.

“God.” John muttered, cheeks turning a delightful hue of pink.

“Precisely,” Sherlock smirked and climbed out the car, leaving John to follow trying his best not to look flustered as he opened his own door and stepped onto the road.

John cleared his throat, “you could ask Greg or Donovan.”

Sherlock shook his head and scanned over the small crowd in front of the house. He gestured with a wave of his hand at a young officer with neat blonde hair. He looked up and stepped closer to the car, “can I help you Mr Holmes?”

“My daughter is sleeping, I need you to watch her.” He informed the young officer, eyes scanning over him in what was clearly his ‘I’m deducing the crap out of you’ look.

“Me?” the officer repeated, unsure of himself, he glanced down at his feet.

“Yes” Sherlock said firmly, “she’ll be no trouble. You just have to keep your eyes on her while I look at the scene.”

The officer glanced at Greg, the DI nodded and he turned back to Sherlock, nodding his head.

“Good, keep the door open and do not touch her unless she starts crying, if she does have an officer collect me and I will come straight out, do not leave her alone for a second.”

The officer nodded wildly.

“Good.” Sherlock stepped away from the car, leaving the door wide open and allowing the officer to get a good look at the sleeping baby in the carseat.

 

 

 

“What do you think?” Greg asked, “Got anything?”

“He was meticulous and fast,” Sherlock rose to his full height and turned to face the grey haired man. “He brought the body in and left him, Robert didn’t move, obvious from the blood on the floor. The person that found him…”

“A woman who lives down the road,” Greg supplied, “saw the door was open.”

“Checked that he was alive and called the ambulance, smudges and footprints, scrapes in the dust.”

“There’s nothing here is there?” Sally asked.

“Nothing of any use,” Sherlock articulated carefully.

“Nothing?” John asked, “No hairs or fibres.”

“The house is abandoned, it’s been used by homeless people as a lodge for quite some time, any evidence would be contaminated.” Sherlock placed a hand on his hip.

“We can’t wait until he’s made a mistake,” John said simply.

“We don’t have to,” Greg announced, placing his phone back in his pocket. “We’ve got CCTV images.”

“What are we waiting for?” John asked rhetorically.

Sherlock swept out of the room. John snorted and followed, it would have looked far more dramatic if he had been wearing his coat, but the consulting detective carried himself in a way that was both intimidating and elegant. Greg and Sally waited for John to pass before following.

The group of forensics and officers were still outside the house, stood on the pavement conversing quietly and the young officer that Sherlock had sanctioned to look after his daughter was lent against the car with his arms crossed over his chest. He started at the sight of Sherlock and pushed himself from the car, arms dropping to his side uselessly.

“Any problems?” Sherlock asked as he hopped over the garden wall using one arm to support his body, the movement smooth and well executed.

“Nope.” The young officer answered. “None.”

Sherlock nodded and ducked towards the car door, it was open but not as wide as it had been previously. His eyes ran over the car and settled on the carseat, his heart caught in his throat and it felt like the earth stopped spinning for a moment, long enough for the ground beneath his feet to crumble. He almost stumbled but caught himself with a hand on the car door, John noticed, so did Greg and Sally. They both looked up at him and the doctor frowned and asked, “everything alright?”

The words garbled as though he was underwater and he could hear nothing but ringing in his ears.

He pulled back the blanket. It was empty…Maeve was gone.

He swallowed the rising bile in his throat, head pounding and asked, voice sounding alien even to himself. “Where is she?”

The young officer frowned and looked through the window at him, “what?”

Sherlock pulled back and turned to face him, eyes wild. “Where is she?”

“She’s in the car.”

“No.” Sherlock shook his head, he rubbed his forehead in an attempt to clear his mind. He now had the attention of everyone standing on the pavement. “No, where is she? What have you done with her?”

“She -” the young officer fumbled with his words, he was visibly shaking now. “She was sleeping in the car.”

“Yes, but where is she now?” Sherlock shouted.

“What?” John was confused and horrified by the direction this conversation was headed.

“In the car.” The young officer replied, voice a mere squeak.

“No, she’s not.” He barked.

“Sherlock, calm down, she’s not in the car?” Greg asked, rushing towards the BMW.

John had crossed to the other side and glanced in, stepping back with a horrified look on his face. He admitted, throat dry, “she’s not here.”

Sherlock took a step towards the young officer who instinctively took a step backwards. The consulting detective’s eyes flicked madly over the faces of the officers, “has anyone picked her up?”

There was a rush of ‘no’ and shaking heads.

“Where is she?” Sherlock looked away, eyes rushing over the street which was for all intents and purposes empty, save a handful of people.

“Did anyone get close enough to the car?” Greg was asking the officer.

The young officer shook his head, “a reporter was fishing but I sent him away.”

“Did he ask about me or Maeve?” Sherlock demanded.

He nodded. “I-I only turned away for a second.”

“Which way did he go?”

The young officer pointed to the right and Sherlock took off running in that direction. John cursed and followed, with Donovan at his side, both were unable to keep up with Sherlock’s long strides. He ran until he reached the end of the road, which split off in four ways; the direction he had come from, straight on and to the left and right. He looked frantically, eyes wild and jumping from person to person. He stopped and clamped his eyes shut, both hands coming to rest on either side of his head. His expression was tight like that of physical pain and his breathing ragged.

“Call Mycroft.” He instructed.

John managed a nod and reached into his pocket, he fumbled with his phone.

“Can you see her?” Donovan asked, craning her neck to look at the busy junction.

“No,” Sherlock answered, voice cracking.

“Mycroft, no this is important, I need to speak with him now…Anthea, someone’s taken Maeve.” Sherlock could hear John speaking but was too focused on the passing people. “Mycroft, thank God, someone’s taken Maeve, yes, she’s gone! We were at a scene, an officer was meant to be watching her, she’s gone.”

Sherlock took a ragged breath and blinked hard.

If Donovan saw a tear run down his cheek, she said nothing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Thirty-Eight: Sherlock is struggling and with the help of everyone he is still getting no where and running out of time. Help comes from an unlikely source, but is there a catch?


	38. Eighty-Days Old

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Maeve's been kidnapped and everyone is left reeling. Mycroft does everything in his power to help his baby brother and try to get his niece back unharmed. Help comes from an unlikely source.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the cliffhanger! I would have updated sooner but I really struggled with this chapter because I wanted it to be perfect. Hope you all enjoy as much as possible. The next chapter will be as soon as possible depending on my workload. 
> 
>  
> 
> Let me know what you think!!!

The world was spinning.

Sherlock was stood on the pavement. He had refused a shock blanket and to sit down, so he stood in the middle of the path with his hands rhythmically clenching and unclenching at his side. His mind was screaming; instinctively flicking from face to face, from floor to car, unable to focus on anything.

The only thing he could see clearly was his daughter’s face, scared and confused.

Every so often he blinked and the same pained look returned.

The previously inactive police cars were now alive; sirens blazing a light flashing and more had flocked to the scene. The police officers were no longer standing in a group chatting but scattered across the street which had been cordoned off, questioning witness and combing the area for clues.

“There’s no sign of anything sir,” a young officer told Greg.

The grey haired detective sighed and ran a hand through his hair, not bothering with a polite smile as the officer nodded and ducked away. He shared a look with John – that of pure dread and worry, for both Sherlock and Maeve – and then tilted his head towards the consulting detective.

John had his arm crossed tightly over his chest but followed his gaze. His heart panged at the sight.

There were no words. Nothing he could say would make this better for him, so instead he kept silent and occasionally touched him, the back of his hand of his shoulder, to reassure him that he was still there. There was no gratitude, no sign that he even registered the touch; just his blank face, a blink and his empty eyes.

“He’s here,” Sally announced jogging down the street.

The black car slowed down and before it had stopped the door opened, Mycroft stepped out and onto the pavement.

 Mycroft stepped out and onto the pavement in one fluid movement. His grey eyes scanning over everyone on the pavement with a harsh ferocity and settling on his brother, he stopped in front of him. “What do we know?”

“I -” Sherlock started.

“Focus.” Mycroft snapped and Sherlock’s eyes widened. The elder Holmes held his gaze and his voice was uncompromising. “Snap out of it and focus, she’s gone but we can get her back. What. Do. We. Know?”

Sherlock’s sad eyes scanned his brother’s face; it was unyielding, mouth set in a firm lie and eyes fixed on him with an intensity that spoke volumes. This was his brother. He fixed things.

Mycroft always fixed things. He wouldn’t allow emotions, though there was no doubt he felt them, to cloud his judgement.

He narrowed his eyes minutely and spoke, voice clear cut like glass. “He left the carseat and bag.”

“He has no supplies,” Mycroft summarised.

“So, we’re against the clock.” Sally sounded horrified.

Mycroft nodded. “When does he call?”

“Ten hours.” John supplied.

“We don’t have ten hours.” Sherlock said solemnly.

“We don’t need ten hours,” Mycroft told him. “He’s escalated, he’s not following his usual pattern; he’ll call soon because he’s raised the stakes. I have someone at the bank.”

“We’re going to pay the ransom?” Greg asked. It was the logical action but he’s assumed Mycroft would have something up his sleeves. Sherlock was silent.

Mycroft nodded. “It’s safer.”

“But you could get her back?” John asked, hopeful.

“If we can locate him, we will get her back without paying the ransom but,” he hesitated, “it’s riskier.”

Sherlock shook his head and looked at the ground. He admitted, voice brittle. “I just want her back.”

Then, Mycroft did something that nobody quite expected. He placed one hand on his brother’s shoulder and grabbed his chin with the other, forcing his younger brother to look up and into his eyes, grip hand. He hissed, “we all want her back, moping won’t make this better, you need to focus.”

John couldn’t repress the shocked look that crossed his face. Sally pretended politely not to notice, he was technically her superior after all and Greg remained silent; not shocked just silent.  

Sherlock attempted to moved his head and look away but Mycroft tightening his grip and kept his head steady. He continued, “If you don’t focus you will lose her.”

Sherlock looked taken back but after a few moments managed a small nod of his head, like a wounded puppy submitting to its owner after doing something naughty. Mycroft released his grip and slowly moved his hand, keeping the other on his shoulder to ground him. Sherlock cleared his throat, “eight minutes, thirty-nine seconds.”

“He won’t harm her,” Mycroft assured him, though it sounded more like a question then a statement.

“No.” Sherlock told him. “He’s victims are adolescents, sixteen or seventeen, they mimic the object of his rage, therefore his desires. He took her because he knew I was involved with the case. This is his final act.”

“We can’t assume that he won’t hurt her.” John shook his head.

“We don’t have to, he won’t do anything until he’s called.” Sherlock told them all.

“What do we do?” Sally asked, she knew the procedure but this was different, the stakes were far greater.

“Scotland Yard.”

 

 

 

Twenty eight minutes, three seconds.

New Scotland Yard was bustling with life. There were officers running around and phones ringing, the conference room provided quiet like being underwater; the outside world was still there but low and garbled. Sherlock was sat at the head of the table; back straight and attention on the clock. He followed each tick of the second hand.

“We have this footage from the end of the street,” Anthea announced. She clicked play and the large screen opposite the consulting detective lit up, the camera was positioned at the end of the street and showed, when zoomed in, the old terraced house with a silver BMW parked outside. The young officer was stood at the car, lent against it with his head occasionally turning and checking on the baby in the back.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at the screen and lent forward, placing his elbows on the table to get as close to the screen as possible without getting up and standing directly in front of it. The movement didn’t go unnoticed by Mycroft or John but everyone remained silent, focused on the screen.

A man, large wearing a pair of black jeans and shirt, approached the car. He had dark blonde hair was solid, average height and was sure not to look directly out of the character. He advanced to the BMW, glanced inside and struck up a conversation with the young officer, friendly and even reached out to touch his shoulder.

No audio.

After a few moments he nodded and backed away, the young officer peaked inside the car and took a step closer to the group of officers, informing them of the man and his enquiries. Said man, was completely unnoticed, as he moved to the opposite door with the charade of lighting a cigarette he opened the car door and reached inside. He came back with Maeve, who seemed to be in the cusps of sleep.

Sherlock inhaled sharply.

Mycroft stiffened and John placed a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder. He tensed and brought a hand to rest on his lips, frightened of the sounds he might have released otherwise.

The man then walked away.

He simply picked up Sherlock’s daughter and walked away with her. No bag, no blanket or carseat. He walked towards the camera, careful to keep his head down with the pretence of looking at Maeve, which he did, only to make sure that she wasn’t making any sounds.

The tape showed him turn right at the crossroad and disappear into a throng of people.

“He just walked up to the car and took her,” Sally whispered in disbelief.

“Do we have any more footage?” Mycroft asked, looking at Anthea.

She shook her head, quick but solemn. “There’s maintenance work further along the streets, the cameras are not in service and it’s impossible to locate him.”

“No clear views of the face.” Greg sighed, scrubbing a hand over his face.

“Nothing that can be used for facial recognition.”

“Any DNA on the car?” Greg asked.

Anderson shook his head. “We’ve collected at least sixty different prints from the car, we’re running them through the system, and have fast tracked the results but it’ll be hours until we have anything solid, if at all.”

Sherlock glanced up at the clock.

Thirty minutes.

He closed his eyes and felt John’s hand slide down his shoulder and onto his arm.

“He hasn’t called, why hasn’t he called?” John asked, sounding frantic.

“He will call John,” Mycroft assured him and then focused his attention on Anthea. “The phone.”

She nodded, “we’ve set up the trace and loudspeaker.”

“You want the call to be on loudspeaker?” Sally asked.

Mycroft answered. “I need to be able to hear.”

“Why?”

“There could be some clue to his location.”

“Clue?” Sally repeated, unsure.

“The sound of a train or underground, a particular club…” he trailed off with a wave of his hand. “There could be very telling details in the background sound that I may hear in the call.”

“We’ll then isolate the background noise digitally and enhance it,” Anthea added.

“It is imperative that nobody speaks during the call,” Mycroft instructed the room.

“Only Sherlock,” John nodded and squeezed Sherlock’s arm lightly.

The consulting detective did not look away from the clock.

“Are you up to this Sherlock?” Greg asked. It was vital that he knew the truth. Sherlock gave a slow sure nod of his head. Greg’s eyes widened slightly and then he frowned, “Are you sure?”

“Certain.” Sherlock told him, his voice level and laced with something dangerous.

“Because if you can’t do this I need to know now.”

“I will do whatever it takes,” he articulated.

Greg nodded.

Thirty two minutes, eleven seconds.

The phone rang.

Sherlock glanced up at his elder brother. Mycroft nodded slowly.

Sherlock stood and answered the call, putting the phone on the table.

“Hello,” he spoke, eyes flicking over everybody in the room whose attention was now on him.

There was a pause, then a voice. “ _Mr Holmes_.”

He wasn’t using voice altering software.

He was no longer afraid of being caught.

Sherlock exchanged a worried glance with Mycroft, who despite his usual collected exterior, whose face also flashed with concern. He took a breath. “I believe that you have my daughter.”

“ _That’s correct,”_ the kidnapper, sadist, murder said. “ _I would let you speak to her but…_ ”

“No harm has come to her.”

“ _I’m not a monster.”_ He sounded outraged.

“My mistake,” Sherlock responded, deadpan. “I was under the impression that you’d kidnapped my eleven week old daughter after kidnapping five people and killing three.”

“ _You don’t understand_.”

“I understand perfectly well. You’re a sexual sadist. You. Get. Off. On torturing and killing people. You’ve raised the stakes, taken my daughter to extort money from me, you know I’ll pay. I have no choice.”

“ _Then you understand the situation_.” He was impressed.

“How much?”

“ _You don’t know_?”

“The usual amount that you ask for is five hundred thousand.” He ran a hand through his curls. “But the stakes are higher, you’ll require more from me.”

There was a laugh. “ _Eight hundred thousand._ ”

Sherlock glanced up at Mycroft who nodded. “Done.”

“ _And Mr Holmes_.”

“Yes.” Sherlock gritted his teeth.

“ _You have an hour. I’ll text you the location_.” the voice taunted. “ _You might want to hurry. I hear babies are awfully dependant on their parents._ ”

Sherlock opened his mouth to respond but the line cut out. He inhaled a sharp breath, nostrils flaring and broke the unbearable silence by hitting the table with his fist. He turned quickly and hands jerked in the air for a moment, before he steepled them in front of his nose.  

“Anthea,” Mycroft spoke first.

“The audio is being analysed as we speak,” she looked up from her phone and up at her boss, professional but as affected by the events as everyone else. “The money is being compiled and will be here in twenty minutes.”

“The trace?” He asked, hope tinging his voice.

She shook her head. “He wasn’t on the line long enough.”

“We’ve got an hour.” Greg voiced, the team nodded.

“Maeve doesn’t have an hour.” Sherlock announced. He turned back to face the room. “She’s eleven weeks old, she hasn’t been fed since we left Baker Street or changed since the hospital.”

“She’ll be fine.” John told him.

“Shut up.” He snapped, fixing John with a murderous look. “You want to reassure me. I do not need reassuring John. I need to get her back, not platitudes. So do not tell me that everything will be alright, not unless she is in my arms, unharmed.”

John nodded and glanced around the room. “Honesty?”

Sherlock nodded and repeated. “Honesty.”

“Her routine, you feed her every two to three hours. She hasn’t been fed in three hours. Another hour, not including the time it takes to get her location will be pushing it,” John informed him. “She hasn’t been changed, there will be chafing that will get progressively worse.”

Sherlock nodded, accepting the new information though it was hard to hear.

The phone rang and Sherlock’s head jerked towards it. His eyes narrowed in confusion and he picked it up.

“ _I thought you might have called,_ ” a sing-song Irish tone said, sounding put out, the pout coming across.

“Jim,” Sherlock frowned in confusion.

Mycroft took a step closer to the table and John crowded closer to the consulting detective.

“ _You could sound a little pleased_.”

“I can’t do this right now.” Sherlock snapped.

Jim tutted. _“Daddy’s got a temper._ ”

“Jim.” He warned.

“ _Sherlock, my dear, a little birdy told me you’ve gotten yourself into quite a predicament._ ”

“You know something?” He deduced.

There was a four second pause. “ _I know that somebody’s stolen your sweetheart._ ”

“Stop this,” Sherlock cautioned. “I don’t have time.”

“ _I would be nicer if I were you._ ”

“Why?”

“ _I’m offering to help you.”_ There was a tiny childlike giggle.

Sherlock frowned and looked up at Mycroft, confusion was clouding his expression. “Why?”

“ _Because she’s a baby, hardly worth bothering_ ,” Jim explained as though it was the simplest thing on earth. “ _What kind of monster would kidnap somebodies baby_?”

“You want to help?”

“ _Yes._ ”

“What do you want in return?” Sherlock asked, cautious.

“ _I’m sure we can come to some kind of arrangement._ ” Sherlock’s eye sort out Mycroft’s and the elder Holmes nodded. “ _What do you say iceman?_ ”

Mycroft was not surprised. “Yes.”

“I _can have her within the next five minutes and in your arms within the hour. And Liam Ashcroft, I’ll give him to you as an added bonus.”_

“Yes.” Sherlock said without hesitation.

“ _She won’t be hurt, cross my heart._ ” Jim promised and hung up the phone.

“There will be consequences,” Greg voiced immediately.

“Yes,” Mycroft looked at his brother, grey eyes soft but unyielding. He said, surprising everyone including himself. “Screw the consequences.”


	39. Eighty-Days Old

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock is willing to do anything to get his daughter back but what will Moriarty want in return?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry I took so long to update but the reasons are thus:   
> -I have so much work to do :'(  
> -I spent Saturday on an all-day bar crawl for charity (in fancy dress)   
> -Sunday I was feeling fragile, not hungover at all :/   
> -I struggled to write the character of James Moriarty.  
> -And every time I thought I'd finished, I realized that I had more to add.
> 
> If anyone is interested I sometimes post snippets on Instagram and I like to keep people updated on my progress. I've also made an image for this fic (it's not that good) but that's also on there.

The conference room was shocked into silence.

The rest of New Scotland Yard continued unaware of the explosive past few minutes in the conference room. The mundane sounds of footsteps, phones, officers chatting and joking around garbled like water dancing over a stone.

“What do we know about him?” Mycroft asked. He stripped himself of his suit jacket and placed it on the back of the chair to his brother’s immediate right.

Anthea was spurred into action. She produced a timer of five minutes at the bottom which began counting down and a blown up image of the CCTV footage; Liam Ashcroft walking away from the crime scene with Maeve in his arms and his head turned strategically away from the camera. An image of the man in question appeared on the other half of the screen; broad with dark blonde hair and a light dusting of facial hair, chocolate brown eyes a dull thin lips.

“Liam Ashcroft.” Anthea enunciated.

Sherlock retook his seat. He crossed his legs and took a deep settling breath, is hand tapping metrically on the table. John stood beside Sherlock’s chair. Mycroft unbuttoned and rolled his sleeves to his elbows, he sat down. Greg stepped forward and stood behind his partner.

“His mother, Margaret Ashcroft, married into money when he was ten,” Anthea informed them all. “He was arrested for assault at the age of thirteen but no charges were brought, his mother and step-father separated a week later, the divorce was finalised after three months.”

“Who did he assault?” Greg asked.

“His step-sister, Charlotte, she was sixteen at the time.”

“There’s the object of his rage.” John commented.

“His mother died recently,” Mycroft sighed.

Anthea nodded. “Two months before the first kid was kidnapped.”

“That’s his stresser.” Greg sighed.

“But, what about Moriarty?” Sally asked. “There’s no way that we can trust him.

There was that silence again.

Greg scrubbed a hand roughly over his face and sighed, almost in defeat. “She’s right.”

Sherlock tore his gaze away from the screen and shot the detective inspector an antagonised look, his stormy eyes wavering between hurt and pure misery. Mycroft inhaled sharply.

Greg took a steadying breath and spoke carefully, “I want her back to but at what cost?”

“Whatever cost it takes.” Sherlock told him. He kept his voice even and it was scary, far worse than if he had chosen to shout.

Greg stepped out from behind Mycroft’s chair and looked at him expectantly. “Well?”

“I’ve said already Gregory. I will give Jim Moriarty whatever he wants. Cater to his whims.” Mycroft told him, tone completely level.

“Time.” Anthea interrupted the staring contest between her boss and his partner, drawing theirs and the other occupants of the room attention to the screen. The red numbers had reached zero and Sherlock looked down at his phone expectantly.

The phone vibrated and began ringing, the screen lighting up.

Sherlock answered, clicking loudspeaker and lent forward on his elbows. “Jim.”

“ _Sherlock, dear_.” The Irish lilt greeted. “ _You should have told me_?”

Sherlock swallowed. “Told you what?”

“ _That your little princess looks like you. She’s the spitting image._ ” He giggled.

“You have her?” Sherlock asked, well, demanded. Moriarty tutted and the sound of him moving around echoed. The consulting detective took a deep breath and snapped, “Jim!”

“ _Darling, there’s no need to get your panties in a twist._ ” Jim drawled. He shifted again. “ _I was under the impression you would want to speak directly to her..._ ”

“Yes.”

“ _Well, then, patience. Daddy needs to rearrange his hands._ ”

The sounds of shuffling grew louder and then, crying. It was not hysterical, quiet sob like crying. The kind that was common once she calmed down somewhat. He had placed the phone beside her face.

“Is she ok?” Sherlock asked.

“ _Aside from the obvious neglect and irritation._ ” He could practically hear the raised eyebrow. There was a continuous shuffling of clothes that suggested he was bouncing Maeve up and down with one hand while holding the phone with his other.

“She needs to be fed.”

“ _Quite_.” Jim agreed. “ _I have my best man on the job_.”

Sherlock nodded and glanced at Mycroft. There was relief in his eyes but his voice remained collected as he spoke up, “and what do you require in return?”

“ _I need some records_.”

“You can’t get records?” Mycroft asked with a raised eyebrow.

“ _I want them destroyed_.” Moriarty informed him.

“Which records?”

“ _Sebastian Moran._ ” Jim answered, “ _You will copy his records digitally and place them on a hard drive for me, and then, destroy all traces of him._ ”

Mycroft turned to Anthea who nodded, already tapping away on her phone. “Done.”

“ _I’ll text you in an hour._ ”

Sherlock opened his mouth to argue but the line went dead.

“Who’s Moran?” Greg asked.

John cleared his throat and spoke up. “Colonel Sebastian Moran.”

“You served with him,” Mycroft deduced, narrowing his eyes at the blonde.

John nodded and placed a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder. “He’s a sniper, best in the business. It doesn’t surprise me that Moriarty snapped him up, he’s really…something with a sniper rifle.”

“Why does he want his records destroyed?” Sally asked.

“I don’t care.” Sherlock spoke up, rising to his feet and buttoning up his suit jacket. “Maeve is safe.”

 

 

 

Anthea stepped into the glass office. The elder Holmes was lent against the desk, one leg crossed elegantly over the other while Sherlock sat on the small sofa, focused on nothing in particular. Mycroft glanced up from the file he was reading; the file of Liam Ashcroft that she’d composed for him, and noticed the memory stick in her hand. She handed it to him.

“This is it?” Mycroft asked.

Anthea nodded. “All digital and hard copies of his files have been deleted.”

Mycroft narrowed his eyes at her slightly and deduced. “You’ve read it.”

“Yes.”

“Good.” Mycroft concluded and threw the memory stick at his younger brother. Sherlock reached out without looking and caught it, hand tightening around it for a millisecond before slipping it into the inside pocket of his jacket.

“Do…they know?” Sherlock asked, voice quiet.

Mycroft closed the file and placed it atop of the desk beside him, hesitating and glanced at Anthea. She was already on her phone, pretending to be occupied and unaware of the conversation. She was rather good at that. “No. It is no use worrying them unnecessarily.”

Sherlock snorted and blinked, he fixed his eyes firmly on the dull carpet.

“I’ll inform them when she is safe and in your arms.” He promised.

Sherlock didn’t look up from the ground. He sounded like a child. “They’ll blame me.”

“No.” Mycroft’s tone was absolute.

The consulting detective looked up from the floor and fixed his gaze on Mycroft. “I left her…”

“With seven police officers. You are hardly at fault.”

“I shouldn’t have left her.”

Mycroft pushed himself up from his position on the desk and walked to the other side of the office, pausing in front of his brother. Sherlock followed his movement and looked up at him. His eyes were wide and cloudy, full of guilt and worry but edged with relief, knowing that his daughter was safe…or relatively safe in the hands of Jim Moriarty.

“She was sleeping,” Mycroft softened his tone. “You left her asleep. An officer of the law was charged, by you, to watch her, along with six other police officers stood on the pavement. She should have been safe.”

“But she wasn’t.” Sherlock enunciated, spitting the t harshly.

“And that. Was. Not. Your. Fault.” Mycroft said carefully.

“They’ve been waiting for this” Sherlock shouted rising to his feet. “From the moment I told them, they wanted me to fail and guess what?” He gestured wildly. “They were right. I have failed. I am failing at this.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” Mycroft raised his voice but didn’t quite match his brother’s tone.

“I’m not being ridiculous.” Sherlock spat, eyes blazing. “I allowed my daughter into the arms of a sexual sadist and the most dangerous man in the country, if not the world.”

“Stop.”

Sherlock looked like a wounded puppy. “I…”

Mycroft interrupted. “No. You are not failing.”

There was a soft tap on the door. It opened and John peeked in with a wary smile.

“The doctor’s arrived. He’s going to come with us and check her over.” He informed the brothers and Anthea.

“He?” Sherlock asked.

John nodded and opened the door wide enough to reveal the doctor, the same brown haired doctor he’d seen in the hospital the night after Maeve had been abandoned on his doorstep. He was holding a black medical bag and wearing a light jacket over a jumper and dark jeans. He looked up and noticed Sherlock.

“Mr Holmes.” He nodded.

Sherlock stepped out of the office. “You.”

“Tim. Tim Clarke.” He offered.

“You, from the first night.” Sherlock scrubbed a hand over his forehead.

“I was on call.” He explained. “I’ve been briefed on the situation.”

“Sh-she’s been gone for three and a half hours.” The consulting detective told him.

“She’s currently with a…” Greg trailed off unsure how to say it.

Anthea supplied, “a criminal.”

Greg nodded and continued. “He’s a criminal, well, he’s a criminal mastermind. She’s safe with him.”

“Safer” Mycroft corrected. “Safer than the alternative. He’s fed her.”

“Has she been changed?” The doctor asked.

“We’re not sure.” Greg scratched his stubbly chin.

“We could be dealing with some irritation then.” He left unsaid that whatever was in the nappy could make it worse.

Sherlock nodded his head in a short jerky movement. “Emotionally?”

Doctor Clarke inhaled deeply. “The whole experience will be traumatic for her.”

“How?” Mycroft asked, concern leaking into his voice.

“She’s more aware now.” He answered, eyes flicking between the two brothers. “She won’t understand but she will be in distress.”

 

 

 

The address was for a warehouse in central London. And the only instructions were that he come alone with Mycroft, everybody else was to remain outside. They pulled up and Sherlock jumped out of the car.

“We’ll be right outside.” Greg informed him.

Sherlock nodded.

“Bring her out and straight to the ambulance.” John told him. Sherlock nodded. John leaned up and placed a kiss on his lips. “Make sure she’s safe.”

 

 

 

They paused in front of the double doors. Mycroft brushed the lapels of his jacket, his usually steady hands shaking. He dropped them to the side before Sherlock noticed and they exchanged a glance. Mycroft nodded and the younger Holmes raised his hand, resting it on the cool cold metal for a second, bracing himself with a steadying breath before pushing it softly.

It opened with a creak.

Jim Moriarty was stood in the centre of the room with his back towards them. The midnight blue material of his suit shimmering in the light that filtered through the dirty, cracked glass above them. His black hair was immaculate and he was humming softly the tune to London bridge is falling down, as though to himself.

“Maeve.” Sherlock managed, the air completely sucked from his chest.

Mycroft remained calm, someone needed to.

Jim stopped humming and turned to face them. Maeve was pressed lengthways against his chest. Her face was tucked into his neck and he held her with one hand on her bum, the other resting beside her body, she clutched it, holding two of his fingers in her small fists. She was breathing softly. Jim looked up from her and towards the Holmes brothers, his dark eyes soft but not yielding, never yielding.

“We were wondering if you’d ever show up,” Jim said plaintively, raising an eyebrow.

Sherlock marched over to the consulting criminal. Mycroft looked taken back but followed, a few paces behind his brother. The younger Holmes stopped directly in front of the smaller man, ignoring the amused smile that settled on his face in favour of his daughter. He raised a hand and let it hover over her back.

She was dressed in a designer white sailor dress with black trimming.

Moriarty twisted and allowed the consulting detective to pluck her from his grasp. He pulled her close.

Her blue eyes flicked over his face and she gurgled as he placed her in the same position that Jim had had her, the way he liked to hold her one hand on her bum holding her close as her face pressed into her neck. She inhaled and her breath tickled his skin.

“She’s ok.” He declared. He ran a hand over her head and craned his neck to press his nose to her hair, he inhaled her scent and kept his face pressed against the top of her head. He took a step back, putting some space between him and consulting criminal.

Mycroft stepped closer to his brother and placed a hand on her back.

“You changed her.” Sherlock observed.

Jim wrinkled his nose, “her clothes were dirty.”

“You fed her.” Mycroft spoke up and his eyes flicked towards the dark haired criminal.

“Bathed and changed.” Moriarty added.

“Why?”

“Baby.” Jim’s voice was high-pithed and song-like.

Mycroft arches an eyebrow.

Jim rolled his eyes and answered, nonchalant. “I have no quarrel with children.”

Mycroft removed his hand from Maeve’s back but was sure to keep an eye on her. “Liam Ashcroft?”

“My file.” He scowled.

Sherlock took his hand away from his daughter’s head and reached into his jacket, producing the memory stick. He held it up and Jim plucked it from between his fingers with a grin. He kissed it. The consulting detective’s hand returned immediately to his daughter’s head and he craned his neck, placing a kiss on her soft scalp. She looked up at him and growled.

“This is all of it?” Moriarty asked with a murderous look.

“Everything.” Mycroft confirmed with a nod of his head.

Moriarty clicked his fingers and twisted towards the doors behind him.

Liam Ashcroft crashed through the doors face first. He stumbled and landed on the concrete with a heavy thus. His hands were tied together and he groaned loudly, face and body bruised and bloodied. The sound echoed through the concrete room. Sherlock held Maeve tighter, resting his large hand on her head to keep her curious eyes from seeing the scene.

Another man followed him. A tall man with neat dark blonde hair and a strong stubbly jawline. He was dressed in the opposite of Jim; a pair of dark jeans, black jumper and leather jacket. He sauntered into the room with an unmistakable swagger, his heavy military boots echoing with each step. There was a hunting knife tucked into the front of his jeans and a gun in the back. He rolled his eyes at his boss but kept his eyes low, stepping over the injured man and stopped beside his boss, a step behind him.

“Sebastian Moran.” Mycroft greeted.

“Mr Holmes.” He nodded. American accent.

Jim held up the memory stick to the sniper. He hesitated but took it, tucking it into his jeans pocket.

“You can have him.” Jim said after a moment, nodded his head towards Liam Ashcroft.

“I kept him alive for you,” Sebastian told them.

Mycroft nodded his head. “I’ll have someone pick him up.”

Sherlock kept his gaze level and his hold on his daughter strong.

Jim nodded once.

“I was going to cut off his balls.” Sebastian remarked, as one might about popping to the shops for some sugar. Jim sighed and rolled his eyes. “Boss said you’d prefer him not to be mutilated.”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. 

The idea was rather appealing but that could wait till later.

“It is appreciated.” Mycroft’s smile was tight.

“I have a deal for you,” Jim announced.

“I’m listening,” Sherlock’s eyes flicked to him but he kept his attention on Maeve.

Jim glanced from Mycroft to Sherlock and giggled. “You leave me alone.”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes and Mycroft opened his mouth to speak.

“You can continue to investigate me,” he interjected, gesturing wildly with one arm. “But you keep your distance, Sherlock. And I’ll keep mine.”

“Why would I agree to that?” Sherlock asked, hesitating.

“I’ll leave her,” he nodded his head towards the infant attached to her father’s chest. “She won’t be involved.”

“Why would you do that?” Sherlock asked glancing at Mycroft, mind reeling from the new information.

“Jim shrugged and shoved his hands into his pockets. “I’m feeling charitable.”

Sebastian snorted.

Jim sent him a look over his shoulder and the sniper looked down obediently but smirked.

“You don’t have to believe me.” Jim said simply putting on an American accent.

Sherlock’s gaze narrowed critically.

“But you come after me.” Jim snarled. “And I’ll come after you, both of you.”

Sherlock took a breath, nostrils flaring dangerously and nodded his head.

“Ciao, Sherlock Holmes.” Jim turned away slowly. Sebastian nodded his head in farewell and followed his boss from the room, they stepped over the body on the floor and left.

Sherlock and Mycroft waiting until they left the room before relaxing. Mycroft stepped closer to his brother and ran his hand down the infants back. “Is she ok?” He asked.

“She’s fine.” Sherlock informed him. “We need to get her checked.”

“You go.” Mycroft cleared his throat and his eyes flicked to the unmoving form on the floor. “I’ll stay with him.”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes but didn’t argue.

 

 

 

Sherlock hurried from the building. His eyes fixed ahead and grip on his daughter secure, holding her bum and head to keep her close to his body. He could feel her breathing against him and the soft growl she released as their bodies jostled with each step. He passed two of Mycroft’s men, who nodded and held the door open for him. He stepped out and quickly blinked to adjust to the light.

John looked up from the ground and his mouth parted. He stepped towards the consulting detective but the taller man closed the distance, rushing to the collection of cars and ambulance parked along the warehouse.

“God. Is she ok?” John asked. He immediately embraced the consulting detective, careful not to hurt the baby between them and ran his finger over her cheek.

Sherlock nodded and gestured his head towards the ambulance. John let go and lead him towards it.

Doctor Clarke jumped to his feet and climbed into the ambulance. The two paramedics moved aside to let Sherlock climb inside. He sat on the gurney and lowered Maeve from his chest, allowing her to lay in his arms. The doctor’s hands skimmed over her pink arms and legs before he looked up at Sherlock. The consulting detective understood immediately and looked at John. The ex-army doctor nodded and helped him to strip her of her clothes. When she was wearing only her nappy the doctor continued his examination of her.

“May I?” He asked when he was satisfied.

Sherlock hesitated but handed Maeve to the doctor.

His heart panged but he forced the feeling aside. Maeve was safe.

He held her close like Sherlock had but on his side, she supported her own head and his eyes skimmed over her face and neck, fingers following his gaze. He looked up at Sherlock, “I need to lay her down.”

Sherlock nodded and twisted his body to get a better view at Maeve lain on the gurney. He unstrapped the nappy and removed it cautiously, the skin was red and blotchy but there were no sores. “Irritation but nothing a warm bath and cream won’t fix.”

Sherlock nodded.

Clarke picked up a clean nappy and put it on her. Sherlock scooped her up immediately, not bothering with the dress and pulled her close, nose immediately settling in her hairline. John handed him a thin blanket and he placed it over her body.

“Do you want to go home?” John asked.

“No.” Sherlock said quickly. “Mycroft.”

The auburn haired man stepped into sight with Greg, holding hands, and looked up at Sherlock. His grey eyes flicked over his brother and niece. “What do you need?”

Sherlock focused on the top of Maeve’s head. “I need to be somewhere secure.”

Mycroft nodded. “My house?”

Sherlock took a breath and closed his eyes. It was as good as a yes.

 

 

 

Anthea opened the front door and stepped aside allowing Sherlock and Maeve entrance into the house. He strode down the hallway, pausing in the entryway to the living room before continuing. The consulting detective mumbled something about a bath and hurried upstairs. John raised an eyebrow and Mycroft gestured towards the kitchen as Anthea shut the door and begun on the stairs, pausing and waiting for her boss.

“There’s tea in the kitchen,” Mycroft informed them.

“Where’s he going?” Greg asked and John looked worried but calm enough to give his partner some space.

“He wants her clean.”

“He’ll need help.” John said.

“I’ll help him.” Mycroft assured him and started up the stairs. Anthea walked beside him.

“Come on,” Greg grabbed John by the shoulder and ushered him towards the kitchen, “when he needs you, he’ll let you know.”

 

 

 

“The house is secure.” Anthea informed him. Mycroft nodded and she continued, “I’ve had the house searched and there is extra security at all entrances.”

“Have someone collect a bag for Sherlock and John.” Mycroft instructed her.

“And your parents?”

Mycroft cursed and stopped outside of the bedroom. “I’ll call them.”

Anthea nodded and ducked away.

The auburn haired man took a steadying breath and tapped softly on the wooden door.

There was no answer.

He opened it and glanced inside. It was the nursery and the bedroom that Sherlock used when he was getting clean. Sherlock’s jacket and the blanket were throw carelessly on the floor. Mycroft followed suit and stripped himself of his jacket, placing it on the back of a chair and rolling his sleeves up. The bathroom door was ajar and he pushed it open. Sherlock was sat in the bath, still in his clothes, shirt undone and clinging to his chest. Maeve was bare and sat on his lap, legs kicking against his in the rising water.

“You could have undressed.” Mycroft shook his head and stepped further into the bathroom.

“I knew you’d follow me.” Sherlock told him. He didn’t look up. His attention was completely focused on his daughter’s hands which were resting in his own, holding onto two of his fingers to keep herself steady in his lap like she was scared to let go.

“I’ve seen you in worse states.” Mycroft reminded him. He closed the toilet lid and sat on it. He decided to change the subject. “She likes the water.”

Sherlock hummed. It was true, his daughter had a certain fondness for water.

“Do you want me to take her?”

“She’s not clean.” Sherlock frowned and looked around.

Mycroft took pity on him and lent forward, retrieving a bottle of baby shampoo from the cupboard under the sink. He offered it to Sherlock. The younger Holmes shifted so that Maeve was between his legs, supported by his thighs and his hands free. He turned the water off and took the shampoo from his brother.

“She’s supporting her own head.” Mycroft observed.

Sherlock nodded dejectedly. “I noticed earlier, when she was being checked over by Doctor Clarke. She’s been building up to it for weeks.”

“Such a smart girl.” Mycroft cooed at her, running a long finger over her cheek.

Maeve looked up at him and blinked, blue eyes big and curious. She gave him a small smile which disappeared the moment Sherlock began rubbing the shampoo into her dark hair. She whined in protest but Sherlock continued, spreading the soap in small delicate circles while she fidgeted, unable to move in his hold but continuing to fight him.

Sherlock sighed.

Mycroft released a soft chuckle. Sherlock shot a brief look at him. “You hated your hair being washed.”

The dark haired man looked down at his daughter. “She feels the same.”

Maeve had sensed that she was losing the battle and started hitting her fists against Sherlock’s legs, before becoming engrossed in the wet fabric and grasping it tightly.

“Very curious.” Mycroft hummed.

Sherlock picked her up and placed her with her back against his chest, leaning back slightly and cupped water in his hands. He used the other hand to shield her eyes and poured the water over her hair. She jerked slightly and looked up at Mycroft pleadingly.

“You need to have your hair washed,” the auburn haired man told her simply with a lopsided smile.

“You haven’t called them yet.” Sherlock deduced.

“I will.” Mycroft sighed. “When things have…settled.”

Sherlock nodded.

“Do you want me to?” He asked, gesturing to his niece.

Sherlock nodded.

Mycroft retrieved a towel from the cupboard and picked his niece up, wrapping her up. She wiggled her arms out and reached out to touch his face, bumping his cheek and nose with her fist.

He walked her into the bedroom but left the door open so that Sherlock could see them.

“Let’s get daddy some clothes,” he suggested and plucked a dressing gown and pyjamas from the drawers.

Sherlock came out of the bathroom with a towel around his waist. He dressed in silence while Mycroft dried Maeve off and put copious amounts of cream on her red flesh, put her in a new nappy and a sleepsuit. He wordlessly handed her over to his younger brother the moment he was done and retrieved the soft bristled brush from the counter. Sherlock took it and brushed his daughter’s hair, pushing the strands forward.

“Should I be worried?” Mycroft asked. He wanted to be absolutely clear.

Less had made nights like these danger nights.

Sherlock shook his head. “I-She’s back now.”

“You’re staying here tonight.” He deduced.

Sherlock nodded and kissed his daughter’s head.

Mycroft nodded in understanding.

 

 

 

Anthea looked up as the door opened. She was sat at the desk in the study.

“Everything is taken care of,” Anthea informed him.

He nodded and reached for his phone. He hesitated with his hand on his pocket.

“Is everything ok sir?” She asked him.

“Have a car pick up my parents.”

She nodded. “What should I tell them?”

“Tell them nothing.”

 

 

 

“They’ll be here soon.” Sherlock told Maeve. His soft tone still too loud for the quiet room.

Maeve’s blue eyes flicked to his face and she continued to suck eagerly on his finger. She held his hand steady with her small fist, grasping the finger that he had offered to her and had now been in her mouth for the better part of two minutes. There was saliva running down her chin and over his hands in copious amounts. His other hand was resting softly on her back, a firm but undemanding grip. He was reclined against the numerous pillows on the headboard with her resting on his chest, head on his pectoral and other hand, that wasn’t holding his, lax against his side. Her fingers clenched and unclenched unconsciously, brushing the fabric of his pyjama top.

“I will never let you go again.” He promised.

Maeve gurgled around his fingers.

“Daddy will never let you go.”

Maeve’s tummy rumbled dramatically and she whined.

Sherlock nodded. “Ok.”

 

 

The tea had gone cold. John fingered the edge of his saucer and remained quiet, too lost in his own thoughts to make polite conversation. Mycroft strode into the kitchen, there were wet patches on his shirt which was rolled to his sleeves and he had lost his suit jacket. Andrews looked up and busied himself with making tea.

Greg opened his arm and allowed Mycroft to step into the gap, slotting their bodies together.

“He ok?” Greg asked, looking up at his partner.

“Fine.” Mycroft cleared his throat and Andrews placed the tea on the counter before nodding and disappearing. He looked at John. “He wants to stay here tonight.”

John raised an eyebrow in surprise but nodded stoically. “I should get some stuff.”

“I’ve sent someone.” Mycroft told him.

“Where is he?” John asked. The worry in his tone was sharp.

“In his room.” Mycroft answered, exchanging a look with Greg.

“He has a room here?” John seemed confused. “He never told me that.”

“It’s not a fond memory,” Greg told him with a solemn tone. John noticed Mycroft stiffen but didn’t comment on it as Greg continued, voice low. “He used to come here when he was high.”

The blonde looked taken back. “He came here voluntarily?”

“Sometimes.” Mycroft managed.

“And the other times?”

Greg answered. “I would bring him here.”

“I’ve had the room transformed somewhat since his last visit,” Mycroft sniffed. “It’s now a nursery.”

“Did he come here often?” John pressed.

Mycroft pursed his lips. “You should talk to him.”

John picked up his tea and drained the cup, not caring that it was cold. “We talked about it, when he started taking” he paused and looked to the ground pointedly, “but it’s hard for him. It’s a part of his past he doesn’t want to relive.”

“He hasn’t been here since you moved in.” Greg told him with a thankful smile.

“Small mercies.” John smiled at that.

 

 

 

Sherlock Holmes eyes were clear like the sea after the storm. He glanced around absently as he edged down the stairs in small practiced movements, the wood cold against his bare feet. Both hands were dedicated to his daughter; one hand holding her firmly against his chest and the other utilised as a dummy for the infant. She sucked on the finger and held it there, he was reluctant to take his hand away from her.

There were voices in the kitchen.

Andrews stepped out of the kitchen and looked up at Sherlock. His eyes widened in something closely resembling shock and worry but quickly settled into relief. He nodded politely and walked down the hallway towards the back of the house. The consulting detective watched him and stepped down onto the floor. He proceeded towards the kitchen and paused in the doorway.

Mycroft had already turned to face the doorway.  

“I- she’s hungry.” He announced, barely trusting his own voice.

Mycroft nodded and moved to make the bottle, retrieving the bottle and formula from the cupboard he had dedicated to her. He lingered in the doorway, shifting nervously on his feet, something totally un-sherlock like. John smiled and gestured to the empty seat beside him. Sherlock considered it for a moment before nodding and climbing cautiously into the tall chair.

“Messy.” John commented nodding towards the infant chewing on his partner’s hand.

Sherlock frowned. His hand was rather wet from his daughter’s attention. Mycroft plucked a clean muslin from the cupboard and chucked it at John, the blonde caught it and held it out for the consulting detective.

“I need my hand.” Sherlock told Maeve, lowering his lips to her head and placing a long kiss there.

He gently pried his finger from his daughter’s mouth and she whined, keeping a strong grasp on his hand with her tiny fists. Her blue eyes flicked up to him with an angry look. John gently plucked her hands from his and wiped the consulting detective’s saliva covered hand. When it was clean he released it and gently wiped the baby’s face of any remaining wetness.

“Nice pyjamas.” John snorted, breaking the silence.

Sherlock looked vaguely amused and looked down. The pyjamas and dressing gown were black silk.

“Shut up.” He said with no real bite.

“You look adorable.” John said in an attempt to pacify him. Greg choked on a laugh and Mycroft looked far too amused as he turned away to warm the bottle.

“I hate you.” Sherlock announced, pouting. He picked up Maeve’s hand and brought it to his lips, placing a kiss on it. Her fingers uncurled and ran over his lips.

“Perhaps you can show John her new trick?” Mycroft suggested.

John looked curious. Sherlock removed the baby from his chest and rearranged her, placing her in a sitting position on the kitchen side, supporting her body with one hand on her back and the other on her front. She supported her own head. Her blue eyes flicked over the room in inquisitiveness, paying particular attention to her Papa and Daddy.

 “Ahhh” John cooed, shifting closer to her. Her eyes flicked to him and he reached forward, smaller hands running over her shoulder and neck. “Someone is getting strong.”

Maeve gurgled in response and John nodded.

“We’re staying at Uncle Mycroft’s tonight.” He told her, tone softening. “A sleepover.”

Maeve gurgled again.

“Yes, it is very exciting.”

She growled.

 

 

 

Mycroft stopped his parents from venturing further into the house by meeting them at the front door. He stood stoic as his parents stepped into his house, looking worried beyond belief and confused. His mother removed her shawl and placed it on the coat rack, his father stopped in front of him, trying and failing to read his eldest son’s expression.

“What’s going on?” He asked.

Violet stepped beside her husband, wrapping her arm around one of his. “Has something happened?”

“Yes.” Mycroft answered with a curt nod. “I need you to remain calm and understand that the situation has been dealt with.”

Siger ground his teeth in a lame attempt of controlling his temper. “What situation?”

Mycroft took a deep breath. “Have you seen the news?”

Anthea stepped into the hallway and informed him, “It’s not on the news.”

Mycroft raised an eyebrow, impressed.

“Just tell us.” His father snapped. “What’s happened?”

“Sherlock has been working the kidnapping case.”

“I’ve read about it in the papers.” Violet said, eyes already clouding with fear.

“And.” Mycroft took a steadying breath. “Maeve was kidnapped.”

“What?” Siger shouted at the same moment violet bit her lip and whimpered.

“We prepared the ransom but it didn’t come to that.”

Anthea added, “She is unharmed.”

“You have her back?” Violet asked.

“She hasn’t left Sherlock’s arms.” Mycroft assured them.

Siger closed his eyes and focused on his breathing. When he had calmed somewhat he asked, “How did you get her back?”

“Jim Moriatry.”

“He helped you?” Siger asked, confusion clouding his expression.

“He got her back and in return we gave him what he wanted.”

“Irrelevant.” Siger snapped and repeated, unsure. “She is completely unharmed?”

Mycroft nodded.

“And Sherlock?” Siger pressed. “Is he ok?”

“He…” Mycroft trailed off. “He’s staying here tonight.”

“Is this a danger night?” His mother asked, gasping.

“He’ll be fine. He just wants to feel secure.” Mycroft assured her. “And he needs her close.”

“You need to tread carefully.” Anthea added in a soft tone.

Violet nodded.

 

 

 

Sherlock was like a small animal. He was frightened at the sound of footsteps and he raised his head, eyes widening and training on his mother and father before softening somewhat and looking back down at his daughter. She was fed and now settling down now. Her face pressed into his neck and hands sprawled over his silk covered chest, fingers clutching the fabric. He was on the sofa with John, reclined against the smaller man with one hand on his daughter’s bottom and the other clutching her tiny head.

They said nothing as they entered the room.

Sherlock seemed to curl inwards on himself slightly.

Violet came round the sofa and placed a kiss on her son’s head, pressing down his curls.

“I didn’t mean -” he began.

“Shhh” Violet hushed him, running her hand over his face and stopping on his chin. She gently pulled his head upwards to face her, “I know.”

“You tired love?” John asked.

Sherlock shook his head and continued to avoid looking at his father.

Siger remained behind the sofa, he cleared his throat and suggested. “Why don’t you take her upstairs?”

Sherlock looked up and considered him for a moment. He nodded.

Siger managed an encouraging smile.


	40. Eighty-One Days Old

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The aftermath of the kidnapping. This chapter is basically a continuation of the last because it was getting too long.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Enjoy, feedback is lovely as usual. Sorry if there are any mistakes, I've got lots of deadlines coming up so I'll be a little less active, you will have the next update soon though hopefully.

 

Siger pushed the door open and stepped aside to allow his younger son access. Sherlock’s clear eyes scanned over his face, his frown deepened and then disappeared, and walked into the room with steady steps. He stopped in the centre and glanced around the room, the only movement from jiggling his daughter lightly side to side. She yawned and her eyelids fluttered.

Siger hovered in the doorway, lent on the wood with his legs crossed elegantly and hands over his chest.

“Are you just going to stand there?” Sherlock asked, confused. He turned to face his father.

“Do you need anything?” the elder Holmes deflected.

Sherlock frowned and looked down at Maeve unsure. “I need…”

“Yes…” Siger prompted, a small smile forming on his lips.

His eyes flicked to the bathroom. His father nodded and stepped into the room, closing the door behind him.

“Can I?” He gestured towards his granddaughter.

Sherlock nodded. He loosened his hold and allowed his father to gently pry the infant from his chest and place her against his own. She whined in displeasure and wacked her fist against his chest. He huffed a laugh and ran his free hand over her head. This seemed to pacify her somewhat, she looked up at his face before dropping her gaze back to his chest and watching her own fingers clutch his shirt.

Sherlock disappeared into the bathroom.

Siger recreated the movements that Sherlock had been doing, rocking the infant slowly from side to side and placed his lips on her scalp. The thin strands tickled his chin and lips but he didn’t move them. Instead he just breathed her in and talked to her, tone a gentle whisper. “You are such a good girl for your daddy, always such a good girl.”

Maeve released a happy whine.

“Yes. He loves you.” He continued. “You’re his everything.”

She yawned loudly, her fist tightening in his shirt and eyes fluttering closed.

“We all love you. You’ve got your daddy and papa, uncle Mycroft and Greg. Me and granny,” he paused and added as an afterthought. “Please don’t tell her I called her that.”

Maeve sighed.

“You have Molly and everyone at Scotland Yard. Then, there’s our family, but it’s probably best to keep you way from them for now.” He admitted with a sad kind of smile. “They can be a bit…”

“Overzealous” Sherlock supplied.

Siger turned to his son and nodded, “overzealous.”

Sherlock stopped a few inches short of his father, his clear eyes flicking over his father and daughter. He noticed her dropping eyelids and the steady pattern of her breath, the way her fist was clutching his shirt and she seemed content.

“Do you want her back?” Siger asked.

“I want to lay down with her.” Sherlock whispered.

His father nodded. Sherlock walked to the left side of the bed and arranged the pillows against the headboard, when he was satisfied he perched on the edge and looked up at his father. He was cradling the infant against his chest and watching his son with understanding and slight concern.

“How do you want her?” Siger asked.

“I’m not going to use.” Sherlock told him, his voice quiet but steady.

He nodded slowly and spoke carefully, “I know.”

“You’re worried.” Sherlock observed.

“I’m always worried,” Siger admitted. “Not necessarily about you taking drugs.”

“You are tonight.”

He nodded in confirmation. “Tonight strikes me as a danger night.”

“Sentiment?” Sherlock asked, tilting his head to the side.

“Sentiment.” He nodded. “You always hated people taking your toys.”

“She’s not a toy,” there was no bite behind it.

“Same principle.”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes but nodded and repositioned himself on the bed, when he was satisfied he looked up at his father expectantly. Siger lent over the bed and pried the almost asleep baby away from his body, her face scrunched up in displeasure and she whined but her eyes remained shut. Sherlock took her and placed her across his chest, her body spread out across his chest. She sighed, considering her new position and relaxed, melting onto his body.

“Would you like anything?” Siger asked, smoothing the sides of the duvet. “Something to eat or drink?”

“Don’t mother me.” Sherlock told him, grey eyes locked onto his father but voice soft.

“Would you like me to leave?” He asked, ignoring the comment.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes, considering it and shook his head.

“Can I read a book?” He asked, gesturing towards the pile atop of the dresser that Mycroft had brought him during his last visit. Sherlock nodded and the elder man stepped across the room and selected a book at random, it was a scientific journal. He settled in the rocking chair and opened the book. He commented, “Hardly light reading.”

“You expected something else?”

“No, I’m sure it’s going to be enlightening.”

 

 

 

There was a soft tap on the door.

Siger looked up from his book and glanced at his son. The consulting detective was in the exact position that he’d settled in earlier; back on the pillows, reclined against the headboard with Maeve sprawled out against his chest. Her mouth was open and dribble had run in a thin stream down her chin and onto his pyjama top. Her eyebrows wrinkled at the sound but Sherlock’s hand kept stroking her hair softly and she seemed mollified, the wrinkles disappearing and replaced by a long drawn out sigh. Sherlock had his eyes closed but he was not asleep.

The door opened slowly and Violet peaked inside. Her eyes gliding over her husband and settling on her son. She stepped into the room and closed the door behind her.

She nodded towards Sherlock and mouthed, ‘sleeping?’

Siger shook his head.

Violet nodded and stepped closer to the bed.

“What do you want?” Sherlock asked, not bothering to open his eyes.

“I thought you might be hungry.” She answered.

“No.”

“When was the last time you had something to eat?”

“What day is it?” Sherlock cracked both of his eyes open.

“You are awful.” Violet declared, she swatted her son’s leg playfully.

“I’m not hungry.”

“You need to eat.”

Siger stood up and sighed loudly, “he’ll have dinner.”

Sherlock’s eyes flicked to his father but he said nothing. “Tea.”

“And a cake.” His mother told him.

“I’m a grown man,” he groaned.

“Then perhaps you’ll start to act like one.” His mother smirked. “You’re having a cake.”

“Mummy.”

“Hush.” She told him, leaning over the side of the bed and running a hand over his curls. He instinctively lent into her hand like a cat seeking attention from its owner. “I’ll make you some tea, you going to come down?”

Sherlock nodded.

“You going to put her down?”

Sherlock frowned and looked down at the sleeping child on his chest. Siger took pity on him and answered, “She’d sleep through a bomb, might as well bring her down where we can watch her.”

 

 

 

Sherlock followed his father into the living room. John was sat in the exact spot that he’d left him with his legs tucked under his body and a case file resting on his knee. Mycroft and Greg were on the opposite sofa going through the casefiles covering the coffee table. Anthea was sat on the floor to the side of the table, her shoes beside her and legs tucked underneath her body. They looked up as he walked in.

Siger stopped and gestured for his son to go first. Sherlock’s clear eyes flicked over the occupants of the room before settling on the blonde and making his way towards him. The blonde untucked his legs and closed the case file, allowing more space for the consulting detective.

Sherlock lowered himself onto the sofa with great care, his hold on Maeve firm. She squirmed in his grasp but remained asleep, nose scrunching up in the adorable fashion that Sherlock was so fond of.

“You ok, love?” The blonde asked.

Sherlock nodded and repositioned himself in an attempt to get comfortable; he reclined against the arm of the chair and raised his legs, John immediately set the file aside and allowed the consulting detective to put his feet in his lap. His hands closed around his ankles and he stroked them gently with his fingers.

“Is there anything you need Mr Holmes?” Anthea asked, preparing to stand.

“No,” Sherlock shook his head. “I’m fine.”

She nodded and went back to the case file in front of her. Mycroft watched his brother closely and Greg smiled at him. Violet bustled into the room with a tray. She placed it on the table.

“Mummy.” Mycroft moaned.

She rolled her eyes at him.

“We are working.” He resigned himself to failure, leaning further into his chair and crossing one leg over the other.

“You can work after tea.” She told him.

“Darling.” Siger directed her towards the empty chair and prepared the tea himself.

“Would you like your tea darling?” Violet asked, looking to her youngest son. Sherlock looked as though he wanted to answer but instead looked down at is daughter, as though it was answer enough. She sighed and continued, “Are you going to put her down anytime soon?”

“I do not plan on her leaving my arms for the foreseeable future.”

John snorted, “Define foreseeable future.”

“The next eight years, maybe more,” he answered quickly with a frown and corrected. “Ten.”

“Hardly straying from your usual behaviour,” Mycroft commented.

Sherlock glared at his brother.

“You can’t hold her for the next ten years,” John said, his expression far more amused than anything else.

Sherlock fixed him with a ‘don’t be an idiot’ look and drawled. “Obviously. When she is not in my arms, she will be in yours.”

“I’m not participating in holding her for the next ten years.” John informed him.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes and Mycroft sighed. He spoke with a soft tone. “Ten years is a long time.”

“Not in the grand scheme of things.” Greg argued. Sherlock’s eyes widened slightly but settled quickly. He continued, “They grow up so quickly.”

 

 

 

It was dark outside and the curtains were drawn. John had his eyes closed but was not sleeping; his breathing indicated that he was still awake and the gears in his head were practically screaming. Sherlock let him keep up the charade, he obviously didn’t want to talk for whatever reason, not that he did himself, but kept his attention solely on Maeve. She was sleeping between then, cradled in his long arm and using the limb as a pillow. His body was angled completely towards her, not wanting to take his focus away from her for a moment.

The only light in the room was that of the night light plugged in on the opposite side of the room, a small owl that glowed purple.

“Are you ok?” John asked into the darkness.

“Fine.” Sherlock answered, glad for the darkness.

John turned his face on the pillow and opened his eyes to look at the detective and his daughter.

“You don’t have to lie to me,” the blonde added.

“I know.” Sherlock frowned and traced his left hand over his daughter’s sleeping face, down her neck (which resulted in a practically delightful shiver and scrunch of the nose) and arm, he stopped at her wrist and took her hand in his own.

“We haven’t had the chance…we haven’t been alone…” the blonde attempted.

“I do not wish to burden you John.”

John took a sharp breath and turned onto his side, facing both the infant and the man. He told them. “You are not a burden.”

“No?” Sherlock asked, voice a mere whisper.

“Annoying; yes, arrogant; yes, lazy; yes…but never a burden.” There was a smirk on his lips.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and corrected. “I didn’t want to worry you.”

John pushed himself up into a sitting position and stared down at the consulting detective. “I was worried. I’ve been worried all day. Worried sick. You think I can sleep after what happened today.”

The blonde was careful to keep his voice low.

Sherlock’s mouth was dry. “I know it was my fault, you blame me.”

“No.” John shook his head, the angry smile on his face highlighted in the purple light. “I do not blame you for what happened today, there is no part of me that blames you. I just want you to trust me.”

“Trust you?” Sherlock asked, brow furrowing. He craned his neck up but made no other attempt to get up.

“Yes.”

“I trust you unconditionally.” Sherlock told him.

“You have a funny way of showing it.” John countered.

“You want me to talk to you,” Sherlock deduced.

“Yes.”

“About…sentiment.” It was a guess.

“About you, this” he gestured wildly with his arms, “about your fears and…this was your room.”

“You’re upset because I didn’t tell you I had a room.” Sherlock frowned.

“You could barely stand to be in the same room as your brother before Maeve was born, yet you have a room in his house, a room that you used while detoxing.”

“It is not a fond memory for me.”

“I don’t want your fond memories. I want all of you.” John was careful not to raise his voice.

“You have all of me.” Sherlock told him with a defeated sigh. “You need only ask.”

“And you’ll tell me?” John seemed sceptical. Sherlock nodded. “No games?”

“No games.” He repeated.

“When she was taken?”

Sherlock took a deep breath. “I felt as though the world had stopped moving.”

John nodded. “And?”

“You saw.”

“You stumbled.” He recalled.

“I was unable to stand. I couldn’t think.” He hissed and repeated firmly. “I couldn’t think.”

“But you seemed so…”

“In control?” He guessed. “Barely, enough to try and locate her but no more.”

“When you saw that she wasn’t in the area,” he recalled and cursed himself.

“I asked you to call Mycroft.”

“Because you knew he could help.”

“Because he’s good at swooping in and taking control of things. He has resources.”

John nodded. “He knew what to do.”

“Because he has done it many times before John.” Sherlock told him. “He knows how to distance himself from emotions, far better than I ever could, and he uses that to aid him.”

“He saw things before you did,” John frowned at the memory. “The deviation from pattern and change in routine.”

Sherlock managed a nod. He stared at the blonde and realisation dawned on his face, he cursed himself inwardly and deduced. “You were bothered that I didn’t ask you to come with me, when we arrived.”

“No.” John said firmly.

“Jealous.” Sherlock corrected.

“He’s your brother.”

“You were jealous because I let him in.”

“No, it’s just…I’m your partner, it’s my job.”

“Mycroft understood that I needed to do two things; think and get her clean.”

“I would have understood.”

“I know.” Sherlock assured him. “You always understand, you’re wonderful. I didn’t want you because with you…you make it harder to filter the emotions.”

John frowned and deduced, far less sure of himself. “You thought you wouldn’t be able to control your emotions around me.”

“You are a conductor John, you help me think and you make it harder to not feel things.”

“Because you love me?”

“Because I love you.”

John closed his eyes and ran a hand through his hair. “Now I feel like a dick.”

Sherlock shook his head. “You were hurt and needed me to understand why.”

“You didn’t need this today.” John told him, very ashamed of himself.

“No.” Sherlock agreed. “But you did. You were hurt as much as I was and I shut you out, stupid, rookie mistake.”

“I love you Sherlock Holmes and her,” he nodded towards the sleeping infant, “I don’t know what I’d do if anything happened to either of you.”

“I hope, for both of our sakes, you never have to find out.”

“I’m going to get a drink, do you need anything?” John asked, leaning forward to get a better view at the sleeping baby. 

Sherlock shook his head and relaxed back into the pillows.

 

 

 

“Did you get any sleep?” John asked, rubbing the sleep from his eyes.

Sherlock shook his head.

“Tired?” He shook his head again. “Did she sleep much?”

Sherlock nodded and looked down at his daughter. She was sprawled out on his chest with her head in the centre, mouth open and a patch of dribble forming on the silk. Her cheeks were rosy and her breathing even.

“Breakfast?” John asked.

“Andrews is cooking.” Sherlock informed him. John raised an eyebrow and he elaborated. “Pancakes.”

“You’re guessing.” He accused.

“I never guess.” The dark haired man frowned and rose to a seated position. Maeve’s breathing faltered, he paused, then returned to normal and she remained undisturbed by the action.

“Yes, you do.”

“I’m right though.” Sherlock grumbled.

“Of course you are.” John humoured with, he kissed him on the nose.

Sherlock’s nose scrunched up in displeasure.

“Do you want to use the bathroom first? Or should I?” John asked, his eyes wandering to the sleeping baby.

“You.”

John nodded and disappeared into the bathroom, pushing the door closed behind him.

 

 

 

The aroma of coffee and pancakes hit John the moment he reached the bottom of the stairs, he sighed to himself and looked down at Maeve. He whispered. “Your daddy is a know-it-all.”

Maeve grunted in response. Her sleep misted eyes flicking to meet his then back down to his shirt, which she clutched in her small fists. He held her with one hand and stroked her with his free hand, running his hand over the soft strands. If she were capable, she would have purred, instead she leaned into the touch and released a content sigh.

He walked into the kitchen and paused at the sight before him.

Mycroft Holmes was sat at the breakfast bar with a cup of coffee in one hand and the paper in the other. He was dressed in forest green pyjamas with a matching dressing gown and dark slippers. He looked up at John and smiled, not the fake kind he reserved for everyday life but a genuine smile; that he often found forming on his lips in the company of his niece. Greg was less put together; wearing a pair of grey tracksuit bottoms and a loose Bowie top. He held his cup of coffee as though his life depended on it.

“John.” Mycroft greeted with a slight but firm nod of his head. He folded the newspaper and placed it on the counter.

“Mycroft.” John returned. “Greg.”

“She sleep alright?” Greg asked, well mumbled around the rim of his cup.

“Better than you I’d wager.” John smirked.

Greg grumbled something inaudible into his cup and downed the rest of the liquid. He placed the cup back on the table, a little louder than necessary and cursed himself for it. He turned to John and flashed a fake smile, “sorry.”

“No problem.” John nodded. Maeve was undisturbed by the sound, far too close to falling back asleep and absorbed in John’s shirt.

“Come, take a seat.” Mycroft offered politely gesturing to the empty chair on his right.

John did as instructed and took the offered seat, leaving one between him and Mycroft for Sherlock.

“She didn’t cry once last night.” Greg announced with a yawn. Andrews refilled his coffee and he thanked him. “Well, I didn’t hear her.”

“No.” John confirmed, he looked down at the small child. “Barely woke up for her bottle.”

“A very tired girl.” Sherlock’s deep baritone rumbled as he strode into the room with far more grace than a man wearing silk pyjamas should have.

Maeve looked hopeful at the sound of his voice and began to squirm in John’s grip.

“Yes, thank you.” John frowned at her then shot Sherlock a look.

“It’s hardly my thought she prefers me.” The consulting detective told him. He took the seat in between his brother and John, immediately crossing one leg over the other and taking the coffee that Andrews place in front of him. He took a sip and grimaced, the strong Italian beans and toothpaste mixing to create a bitter acidic taste. That didn’t stop him drinking half before placing the cup on the side, pushing it to the side and then turning to look at John.

“Here, yes, you can have your daddy.” John told her, sounding rather put out and handed her to the taller man. Sherlock took her and settled her on the counter so that she was facing him, supporting her own head with his large hands supporting her body.

“Sorry.” Sherlock offered.

“Shut up.” John groaned and kissed him softly.

Sherlock smirked against his lips and pulled back to watch his daughter. She was watching him with fascination, her blue eyes wide and eyebrows raised slightly. “Papa will think you don’t like him.”

Maeve gurgled.

“I know you like him.”

She frowned and attempted to push herself forward.

“He loves you too.”

Maeve gurgled again, this time louder.

“What do you want?” He narrowed his eyes at her.

“A kiss.” Mycroft sighed as though it was the most obvious thing in the world.

“I kiss you all the time.” Sherlock frowned, still addressing his daughter.

Maeve growled.

“Ok.” He took pity on her and lent forward. She immediately flashed a gummy grin and grabbed fistfuls of his unruly curls the moment he was close enough, directing his face to hers. She placed a long sloppy kiss on his nose. He closed his eyes and sighed in displeasure.

“What are you two doing?” Violet asked. Sherlock’s gaze flicked to her. She was stood in the doorway with a hand on her hip, watching her son with a mixture of curiosity and anticipation. She was dressed in a pair of jeans and white shirt with a cardigan over the top. Siger appeared behind her, dressed in a similar fashion; jeans and a shirt.

“Kissing.” Sherlock mumbled while his daughter for all intents and purposes chewed on his nose.

“Obviously.” She muttered.

“Obviously,” Sherlock repeated.

Maeve grew bored and lifted her face from his nose. She considered it for a moment before moving towards his lips. He huffed loudly but allowed her to place her ‘kisses’ on him. After a moment he pried her gently away and offered her back to John, she whined but settled down quickly in the army doctor’s arms, using her fingers to explore the beginnings of stubble on his face.

Sherlock accepted the handkerchief that Mycroft offered and wiped his face.

“I prefer kissing you.” He told John.

The blonde chuckled and pressed a kiss on the infant’s forehead. “He doesn’t mean that, daddy loves your kisses.”

“I would hardly call them that.” Sherlock muttered.

“Stop sulking.” Violet scolded him. “One day she’ll be too embarrassed to kiss you.”

“And the last thing she’ll want is to kiss you.” John added.

Sherlock frowned.

“Will you be having breakfast?” Greg asked, he looked more awake and was better company already.

Sherlock shook his head. “I had dinner.”

“It’s pancakes.” His mother said.

“I am fully aware.” He flashed a smile and downed the rest of his coffee.

“Someone stinks.” John observed with a wrinkled nose. He peered down at the baby in his arms suspiciously and she frowned in return. Her face expressing much, she did stink. “I’ll change her.”

Siger stepped forward, “no, John, allow me.”

Violet hit his arm, “don’t be silly, I’ll do it.”

Mycroft raised an eyebrow and Greg rolled his eyes. John smiled but argued, “Thanks, but I’ll do it.”

“Trilling that you’re arguing over whom will clean the faeces from my daughter’s derriere,” Sherlock commented, nose wrinkling at the smell. “But the smell is beginning to permeate.”

“I’ll go.” John said firmly.

The blonde ducked out of the room quickly and Siger took his seat.

“Aren’t you going to go with him?” Greg asked. A few hours ago the detective was unable to let the infant out of his sight.

“Are you suggesting I go and watch?” Sherlock asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Well, yes.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes and enunciated. “I love them but watching him wipe away faeces is less than appealing. I get to be an active participant daily.”

Mycroft snorted. Greg glared at him and the elder Holmes brother shrugged, “he has a point.”


	41. Eighty-Five Days Old

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everything seemed fine but Sherlock isn't coping as well as he would like people to believe. He hasn't left the flat in four days.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took so long but I am in the midst of all my assignments. I haven't got long left, so you can look forward to regular updates shortly. 
> 
> Let me know what you think. I love all your feedback.

 

John and Greg found an empty table at the back of the café and sat down opposite one another. John immediately lifted his tea to his lips and blew on it before taking a sip. Greg stirred his sugar and sighed.

“I assume you didn’t bring me here to chat.” John broke through the silence. Greg looked taken back. The blonde shut his eyes and sighed, “Sorry, I didn’t mean to snap at you.”

“That bad?” Greg asked, sympathy leaking from every pore.

John considered it. “I don’t know.”

Greg nodded in understanding. He knew that Sherlock wasn’t exactly the easiest man to understand. “How is he coping?”

“He isn’t.”

“What do you mean?” Greg frowned.

“He hasn’t left the house since…well, since Mycroft dropped us off.” John answered and raised an eyebrow. “But you already knew that.”

“Well, yeah, Mycroft did mention that he hadn’t left the flat.” Greg scratched his stubbly cheek and offered. “He’s upped the security and surveillance on all of you.”

“I don’t know what to do.” John admitted.

“Do you want me to pop round? Try and talk some sense into him?”

John placed his cup on the table and lent back in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest. “He needs help.”

Greg nodded and considered it for a moment. He reached into his trouser pocket and pulled out his mobile. “I’ll call Myc.”

 

 

 

Maeve enjoyed running her hands over the stubble on his cheeks. She followed the line of his jaw with sure but slightly shaky movements, eyes fixed firmly on the skin she was touching and the hair that covered it. Sherlock continued to stroke down her back, following the curve of her spine and stopping on her bulky bum before starting the movement all over again. He was lain on the sofa, feet hanging off the end and head resting on a pillow. The curtains were drawn but not completely shut. Small amounts of sunlight filtered into the room.

Mrs Hudson climbed up the stairs and stopped in the doorway, her eyes immediately resting on the consulting detective and his daughter. “Sherlock, what are you sitting in the dark for?”

Sherlock glanced up at her, moving his face as much as he could allow with his daughter continuously rubbing at the skin. “Thinking.”

“You should go out, it’s a lovely day.”

Sherlock frowned and looked back at his daughter. “We’re fine.”

Mrs Hudson sighed sadly but quickly left the room after picking up a few items.

The front door opened and closed.

Mycroft.

The sound of conversation filtered upstairs but he ignored it.

A few moments later his brother appeared in the doorway, his grey eyes flicking critically over the room and settling on his brother, they softened but remained critical. He was dressed to his usual standard in a dark blue three-piece suit.

“Brother mine,” he greeted.

“Go away.” Sherlock mumbled and quickly turned onto his side, towards the back of the sofa, brining Maeve with him. She jerked and glanced around the room, but remained calm. A few seconds later she continued to run her hands over his face.

“This isn’t healthy.” Mycroft announced.

Sherlock said nothing.

“You need help.”

“I don’t need help.” He hissed.

“Brother, I am trying to help you.” Mycroft walked over to the sofa and stood at the end near his brother’s feet. “When was the last time you slept?”

“I can’t sleep.” He hissed.

“Can’t? Or won’t?”

Sherlock said nothing. The silence was answer enough.

Mycroft placed his umbrella against the wall and took off his suit jacket, he placed it on the back of the armchair that belonged to John and then stopped and looked down at his brother, the coffee table separating them. He lifted his arms in a ‘hand her to me’ gesture and instructed. “Give her to me and go shower.”

 Sherlock glanced over his shoulder.

“I haven’t got all day Sherlock.” Mycroft told him, keeping his voice light. “We have things to do.”

“What things?” Sherlock asked. He twisted in one fluid movement, turning to face his brother. Maeve didn’t bat an eyelid this time, quickly adapting to her father’s habits.

“You need to shower. I will feed Maeve and then we will clean the flat, you will sleep.” He listed off. “I will not leave until you ask me to.”

“Leave.” Sherlock told him nonchalantly.

“I will, when you mean it.”

Sherlock glared at him. “She does not leave the flat.”

Mycroft nodded. He’d expected as much.

Sherlock swung his legs round into a sitting position and rose to his feet. The brothers stared at each other for a moment before Sherlock removed the limpet from his chest and handed her to his elder brother, hesitantly. Mycroft took her in his strong hands and twisted her small body to face him. She kicked in excitement and allowed the auburn haired man to place her firmly against his chest. He held her with one large hand and looked to up to his brother. Sherlock was torn between contentment that she was happy and Mycroft holding her, and the aching loss that she was not in his arms.   

He nodded and strode towards the bedroom.

Mycroft raised an eyebrow. He had expected more of a protest from his brother.

The bathroom door slammed shut and the sound of running water followed.

“Let’s see if Mrs Hudson would be amenable to helping us.” He told the infant.

Maeve gurgled loudly in response.

“Yes.” He nodded.

He carried the small baby down the stairs and stopped at the bottom. Mrs Hudson opened the door and startled at the sight of him but quickly broke into a smile at the sight of uncle and niece.

“Mycroft.” She greeted.

“I was rather hoping for your help.” He admitted.

“Where’s Sherlock?” She asked.

“He’s in the shower.” Mycroft answered with a tight smile.

Mrs Hudson nodded and looked up at the ceiling. Her voice was low as though she was afraid of being heard. “Is he ok??”

“Fine. We we’re hoping that you’d help us to tidy the flat.”

“Oh.”

“If it’s not too much bother.” Mycroft added with a slight smile.

“No, its fine,” she put her finger to her lips in consideration. “Afterwards I’ll pop and do the shopping.

“You are a saint Mrs Hudson.”

 

 

 

Mrs Hudson bustled around the flat, tidying and cleaning as she went, while Mycroft sorted out the baby supplies littering the living room. He placed all the toys in boxes in the corner. Maeve was sat on the sofa, propped up by pillows in a sitting position with a large rubber ring in her mouth, chewing it enthusiastically.

“John did the kitchen yesterday,” Mrs Hudson informed him as she placed the last book back on the shelf.

“The bottles are sterilised.” Mycroft added as an afterthought.

“I’ll take the washing from the hamper down.”

“And I’ll feed her highness.” He glanced at his niece and bowed slightly.

Maeve withdrew her chew toy to grin at her uncle and dropped it onto the floor. Mycroft rolled his eyes and picked it up, Mrs Hudson took it from him wordlessly. “I’ll wash it.”

The elder lady left the flat.

Mycroft knelt down in front of his niece. “Would you like some lunch?”

 

 

 

Sherlock appeared in the doorway wearing nothing but his beige dressing gown, skin clammy from the steam in the bathroom and face freshly shaven. His hair was pushed back and beginning to curl.

“I’ve had some lunch prepared.” Mycroft informed him. He looked up from his niece to his younger brother.

Maeve was in Mycroft’s lap, sitting with her back to his chest and her eyes now firmly on her father.

“You’re not going to leave.” Sherlock said. It wasn’t a question or a statement. It came across as a plea.

Mycroft raised an eyebrow slightly and shook his head. “Not until you ask.”

Sherlock nodded and walked into the kitchen, he picked up both plates on the table and brought them into the living room, placing one on the desk behind his brother and the other on the coffee table. He took a seat on the sofa. He took a moment to consider the macaroni and cheese, it was baked in a small ceramic pot with a breadcrumb topping and chips on the side. He picked up a piece of cucumber from the side salad and popped it into his mouth.

Mycroft rose from the chair, holding Maeve against his body as he did so and placed her on the blanket and pillows he’d prepared on the floor. She sent him a confused and slightly upset look. He told her, “Shhh, I’ll be right here.”

Sherlock glanced over the coffee table at her.

Mycroft had slipped off his shoes and placed them by the chair with his suit jacket. He put on foot close to Maeve and she immediately grabbed his trouser leg with one hand and tugged gently.

“Macaroni.” Sherlock said thoughtfully.

Mycroft hummed.

Sherlock frowned and looked up at his brother. “Sentiment.”

“Yes.” Mycroft agreed. “Mother always made it…”

Sherlock cut him off, “when we were ill.”

“Quite so.” He cleared his throat.

“Why are you here?”

Mycroft looked taken back by the question. “You needed me.”

“I didn’t ask.” Sherlock narrowed his eyes.

“You should have.” His older brother told him. “There are people that would help you the moment you asked, if you weren’t too stubborn.”

“This is good.” Sherlock changed the subject, taking a bite of his pasta.

“Mothers recipe.”

There was a soft tap on the door and Anthea poked her head in. “I took the liberty of getting shopping.”

An agent came up the stairs behind her and smiled politely to the Holmes brothers. He stepped into the kitchen and placed the bags on the table, along with another agent. They both left the moment they were finished and Anthea watched, then stepped into the room and placed a leather bag on the floor beside the door. “I’ll put the shopping away.”

“That’s hardly in your job description.” Mycroft argued.

Anthea shrugged. “I’ll just demand a raise.”

Mycroft rolled his eyes.

She added, “And extra holiday.”

 

 

 

Anthea had set up shop on the sofa, where Sherlock had once been, her legs tucked underneath her body and papers on the coffee table, a laptop on her lap. Mycroft was cradling his now sleeping niece and with his free hand reading a file. “Monitor the situation, I doubt there will be need to intervene but we’ll keep a weathered eye.”

“Anything else?”

“That should be sufficient for now.”

“I have a stand in in your office, he’s taking care things.” She told him. “Are you going to take her for a walk?”

“I assured my brother that I would not take her outside the flat.”

“Is there anything in particular that you wanted for dinner?”

“Whatever my brother wants.” He answered.

Anthea nodded. “When he wakes, let me know and I’ll have it picked up or prepared.”

 

 

 

John stopped short in the doorway at the sight of Mycroft Holmes. The elder Holmes brother was stood in the centre of the room with Maeve perched on his hip, her hands clutching his white shirt, supporting her own head. She looked up at the uncle but the moment she heard John she jerked her head in his direction.

“Sorry,” John sighed and rubbed a hand over his face. “I didn’t know you’d be here.”

“You were the one that brought to my attention the state that my brother was in.” Mycroft frowned.

“Yes. I just thought you would have talked to him.”

“I told him I wouldn’t leave.”

“I’m not asking you to leave.” John said quickly. “I’m sorry. Long day.”

“A long couple of days I’d imagine.” Mycroft smiled at the smaller blonde.

“I’m going to make a cuppa, want one?”

Mycroft nodded and followed the smaller blonde into the kitchen. John flicked the kettle on and opened the fridge, he stopped, surprised, and turned to Mycroft. He gestured to the full – not full of body parts but full of food fridge, meat and fruit, dairy and veg - and asked, “Is this your doing?”

Mycroft nodded and shifted Maeve higher up his hip. She gurgled happily.

“You had a good day sweetheart?” John asked her.

She gurgled again, this time louder.

“I bet.” He hummed and retrieved the milk, two cups and a teapot. He knew the elder Holmes would prefer loose tea over their usual brand.

“Sugar?” John asked, unsure.

Mycroft shook his head.

“Do you want me to get you a seat for little miss?” John asked, nodding towards the happy baby.

“She’s fine.” Mycroft smiled. He wouldn’t admit it but he liked having her close.

“We have a new highchair, and now she can support her own head we can actually use it.” John seemed excited by the prospected then sighed, “God. That’s what life is now, getting excited about baby chairs.”

Mycroft chuckled and the blonde groaned, he filled up the teapot and place it on the table alongside the cups and milk. He slumped into his chair. “Parenthood John, it comes to us all eventually.”

“In various shapes and forms.” The blonde smiled.

Mycroft nodded and stood up. He wordlessly offered his niece to her Papa, she growled in annoyance. John sighed, “That’s lovely that is.”

He took the squirming infant and placed her against his chest, face tucked into his neck. She moved round until she was completely comfortable and then sighed – a long soft sound that tickled his skin – nose brushing against his throat. “Comfortable?” He asked her. She made a gurgle of affirmation.

“Is his highness sleeping?” John asked. Mycroft nodded. “Finally.”

“I’m sure he was becoming unbearable.” The auburn haired man managed a tight smile. He knew how his younger brother could get, when upset or sleep deprived, or both.

“Not really.” John admitted. “He just couldn’t turn off, couldn’t put her down or take his eyes off her. Pretty normal for the circumstances.”

“PTSD.” Mycroft said, eyebrows furrowing.

John nodded. “He’s worried and that’s perfectly normal.”

“Given the circumstances.”

“My little angel has everyone concerned.” John cooed at the infant.

Maeve gurgled again, this time lacking the enthusiasm.

“She been good?” John asked. Mycroft nodded. “Of course she was. Missing direct sunlight though.”

“I hope to have that remedied.” Mycroft told him.

“If you do, I owe you a drink.” John smiled.

 

 

 

When Sherlock woke up it was dark. He felt sluggish but well-rested, he rubbed his eyes and rolled onto his back. There was voices coming from the lounge but they were low, the door was closed then. He yawned and pushed himself into a sitting position. He swung his feet round and quickly pulled on a dressing gown over his pyjama, he first went to the bathroom then walked towards the living room.

He opened the door and was faced with his brother and partner. They were both sat on the floor with pillows propped behind their backs, opposite one another with Maeve between them on her tummy time mat. She was busy with a small dolphin toy.

“Evening, Love.” John greeted with a lopsided smile.

Sherlock ran his eyes over his partner and then plopped himself down in his seat.

“An endless string of runny noses and flu jabs.”

“I hate it when you do that.” John said.

Sherlock raised both his eyebrows and articulated. “No, you don’t.”

“Shut up.”

Maeve growled loudly. John sighed, “You don’t like it when I tell your daddy off do you.”

Maeve growled again.

“Time for bed I think.” John said.

“You or her?” Sherlock asked with a smirk.

“Her.”

“Do you want me to leave?” Mycroft asked, craning his neck to glance at his brother.

“Dinner.” Sherlock gave in answer.

“What would you like?” Mycroft asked. He shifted and ran a hand over his niece’s back.

“We have a full fridge, I could cook.” John offered.

“Chips.” Sherlock decided.

“Would you like me to pick some up?” John asked.

Sherlock shook his head. “I know a fantastic fish shop just off the Marylebone Road. The owner always gives me extra portions. I’ll go.”

“You sure?” John asked.

Sherlock nodded and rose to his feet. “Can you dress her? And locate my papoose, Mrs Hudson’s tidied.”

“You’re taking her with you?” John’s eyebrows rose in surprise, so high that they were practically touching his hairline.

“Yes, fresh air.” Sherlock gestured wildly and left the room.

“Right, better get you ready to go out with your daddy.”

 

 

 

Sherlock pulled open the front door and a rush of cold air hit him in the face, blowing his already messy curls back from his face. He was dressed and the papoose strapped beneath his coat, which had Maeve facing him with her head resting on his chest. One large hand was resting on her back. He stepped outside and closed the door, placing his now free hand on her head. She had a hat on and a coat. His coat acted as protection against the cold summer night wind.

She gurgled.

“I’m here.” He assured her.

The walk to the chip shop was short and well, both calming and nerve wracking, being the first time he’d left the flat since she was taken from him. But she was back now and safe. There were a handful of people ordering and waiting for food, a few people looked up as he entered but the rest were too absorbed in their phones or the small TV in the corner. The owner, a portly man with a big smile and greying dark hair looked up at him and his expression turned into a grin.

“Sherlock.” He greeted with a thick London accent.

“Harry.” Sherlock smiled and lent over the counter to smile at the other man.

“This must be your daughter.” He smiled. “She seems happy.”

“She is.” Sherlock smiled and ran his hand over her hat covered head. “I was hoping for some dinner.”

“Anything you want, on the house.” Harry told him.

Sherlock ordered and waited, though he didn’t have to wait long, his meal was the first prepared and put into the plastic bag. Harry threw in some drinks and extra items. Sherlock said a quick and polite farewell before ducking out of the shop and walking back home.

“One day, you’ll be old enough to have chips.” He told her in a hushed tone.

A group of girls, dressed for the town, passed him and their mouths dropped at the sight of the man and baby. A chorus of ‘awws’ broke out and they watched him pass.

“They like you.” He smiled.

Mrs Hudson opened the door before he had reached the top step. “Come in, you’ll catch you death.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes but stepped in beside his landlady, she closed the door behind them. He informed her. “I brought dinner.”

“You didn’t have to do that.” She said.

Sherlock lent down and kissed her cheek. He reached into his bag and produced some food wrapped in oil dotted paper. He handed it to her. “Goodnight Mrs Hudson.”

The consulting detective climbed the stairs slowly and when he reached the top, stepped directly into the kitchen. There were plates and cutlery on the table along with sauces and glasses. He placed the bag on the table. John and Mycroft both stepped around the corner. He gestured towards his daughter. “I’m just going to.”

John nodded. “I’ll get dinner out. What do you want?”

“Harry went overboard.” He informed him. “Battered sausage.”

Sherlock went into his bedroom and shed his coat and shoes, he then went about unstrapping the papoose and, using one hand to hold her and the other to take the papoose around from her. He carefully pried the papoose from between his hand and her back and brought her forward to his chest. Sher grabbed at his suit jacket and he smiled down at her. “Time for some dinner.”

The three men ate in relative silence.

When they were done John took their plates into the kitchen and started cleaning up. Mycroft remained in his seat, eyes fixed firmly on his brother as he jiggled the infant on his knee.

“Can I leave you now?” Mycroft asked. The question was laced with multiple meanings.

Sherlock nodded.

“And you will call the moment you need something.” He added.

Sherlock nodded again. “You’re still coming on Wednesday.”

“At my usual time.” He nodded to his younger brother.

There was no thank you. There was no need this time. Mycroft just put on his jacket, picked up his umbrella and left, with a small smile to his brother, a farewell to John and kiss to his niece’s forehead.

John read for a few hours, alternating between his book and checking his blog, and staring at his partner and daughter. Then, he went to bed leaving the consulting detective with his daughter. Maeve was sleeping soundly in her Moses basket, which was on the floor beside the sofa so that he could watch her.

There was a soft tap on the living room door and his father poked his head round shyly. He spoke in a hushed tone, “I’m sorry to come so late.”

“What do you want?” Sherlock asked, looking up at his father.

Siger pushed the door further open and stepped inside, keeping his arms and a box behind him.

“I know that you’ve been having a…difficult time as of late, and I thought that I could help or at least try to.” His father rambled. His father never rambled.

Sherlock gave him a look that clearly said ‘get to the point quickly’.

His father cleared his throat. “Anyway.”

He produced the box from behind him and placed it on the coffee table. It was a cat box.

“A cat.” Sherlock practically hissed.

Siger held his hands up. “Hear me out.”

Sherlock glowered but remained silent.

Siger opened the front of the box and the cat slowly stepped out. It was a girl, tortoiseshell with more black than white, which was only evident on her paws and the underside of her stomach, and ginger sparse in the dark fur. Her green eyes flicked over the flat sceptically then settled on the consulting detective. She meowed loudly. Sherlock reached out to stroke her but his father quickly grabbed his hand.

“She’s very particular.” He offered, releasing his son’s hand. “She only likes to be touched on her head and her back, never on her sides or stomach and only when she wants. She will scratch and bite you if you annoy her. And can be very viscous.”

“So you thought you’d bring her into my house.” Sherlock kept a wary eye on the cat walking over the coffee table and sniffing the furniture.

“She’s very protective and loves kids.”

“She won’t harm Maeve.”

“No.”

Sherlock turned his head slightly. “If it does I will hold you personally responsible.”

Siger nodded. “And her name is Jade.”

“Jade.” Sherlock shook his head.

The cat in question, Jade, sniffed the edge of the Moses basket thoughtfully and jumped inside, Sherlock jerked and went to move her but the cat looked up at him in warning. She sniffed the baby and licked her hand. She sat at the edge and started kneading the blankets at the end. She took a moment and curled up, eyes still fixed on the consulting detective.

“I hate cats.” Sherlock said simply.

Siger chuckled. “I know but dogs are more expensive and harder to train.”

“She hardly seems trained.” He gestured towards the cat.

“She isn’t but at least she has a protective instinct.”

“I hate you.” He told his father.

Siger chuckled. “I know.”


	42. Eighty-Six Days Old

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John wakes up to find that they have a pet cat and Sherlock's parents visit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wasn't planning on this chapter. It just sort of happened.  
> If I don't respond to any comments, I am NOT being rude, my wifi has stopped working again!!!!  
> Stressful.  
> Expect another update at towards the middle of May because I have loads of deadlines.

Sherlock was awoken by a long meow and a small body jumping onto his chest. He jerked awake and blinked, staring into the eyes of their new cat, Jade. Her pupils were thin black lines against pale green irises.

“Did you want something?” He asked her, voice rough from sleep.

The cat sat down on his chest and continued to look at him. She meowed again.

John’s face scrunched up and he slowly woke. He turned onto his side and blinked away the sleep. He took a moment to consider it before asking, “Is that a cat?”

“Of course it’s a cat.” Sherlock snapped at him.

John rubbed a hand over his face and considered it for a moment. He was no stranger to Sherlock’s antics but this was a whole new level. The only thing that remotely topped this was when he came home to find him with a baby. “Do I want to know why there’s a cat?”

“My father brought her.” He offered the thin cat one hand and she knocked her head against it, rubbing her cheek along his fingers. “She’s a sort of…security system.”

“A cat?” John asked, sitting up with a stretch. “A cat is a security system?”

“She’s very protective.”

John sighed. That was about all the explanation he would get. He reached out and stroked the cat, his hand running over her side, in response she turned and bit him, hissing. John pulled his hand back quickly, not missing the teeth. “She’s lovely.” He commented.

“She doesn’t like to be touched.” Sherlock offered.

“Great.” John commented. “We got a pet, and she doesn’t like to be touched.”

Jade meowed loudly.

Maeve yawned from her Moses basket.

“I’ll get her.” John announced, pushing the covers from his body and getting to his feet.

Sherlock remained still underneath the cat. “Do you think you could get her off of me?”

John snorted and reached into the Moses basket. “Not likely, she just bit me for touching her.”

“John.” Sherlock groaned and glared at the cat. Jade glared back.

“Did she sleep in the Moses basket?” John asked frowning at the cat hairs at the end. He scooped Maeve up and placed her firmly against his chest as she yawned and woke up slowly.

Sherlock managed a small nod.

The blonde twisted his neck to get a better view at the awake but sleepy infant. “Did you grandad buy you a cat?”

Maeve whined and rested her head on his shoulder, yawning once more.

Jade’s ears twitched and she turned to face the blonde and baby. She meowed again.

John sat back down on the bed, leaning against the headboard with Maeve. The cat immediately climbed off of Sherlock and settled on the smaller man’s legs. She sniffed thoughtfully at him and used her front paws to climb up his torso and crane her neck to get a better view at Maeve. The baby in question sighed contently against her papa’s shoulder, blue eyes open and looking at the car that was staring at her.

“You sure she’s ok?” John asked.

Sherlock, relishing in his new found freedom, sat up and moved closer to his partner. “My father is not an idiot, he was sure that she wouldn’t hurt Maeve.”

“I like cats.” John said, pacified by the consulting detectives words.

“I prefer dogs.” Sherlock grumbled.

“She seems alright.”

“Yes, I suppose, if you like Satan’s pet.”

John snorted as Jade ran her nose and cheek over the infants foot and followed her leg up. She stopped and edged closer to the infants face. Maeve’s eyes widened in curiosity, having never seen an animal like this before, but she didn’t reach out. Jade climbed slightly higher and touched the baby’s nose with her own. Maeve’s nose wrinkled and she smiled in response. Satisfied, the cat rubbed her face against her cheek and meowed again, this time louder.

“I think someone is hungry.”

“There’s food on the table and stuff,” Sherlock gestured with one hand.

“Let’s get some breakfast then,” he told Maeve and the cat. He made to get up and Jade meowed in protest before dutifully jumping from his lap onto the floor and leaving the bedroom.

 

 

 

They fed the cat on the small breakfast bar. It a precautionary measure; once Maeve was able to move around on her own, she would be able to reach the food and possibly eat it, instead they would get Jade into a routine from the start. The cat gobbled down the food in the small pink ceramic bowl, occasionally pausing to look up at the two men in the kitchen or lick her lips.

Maeve was gurgling happily on her father’s lap.

There was a ‘yoo-hoo’ followed by the sound of voices and footsteps.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and stood up, brining Maeve with him. He was holding her against his body, her back against his torso with a hand between her legs and his arm holding her firmly. His mother stopped in the doorway and broke into a grin. “Sherlock.” She stepped into the room and kissed her son on the cheek.

“Are you going to say hello to your grandma?” She spoke to Maeve in a softer tone.

Sherlock pushed his body closer to his mother’s in a silent gesture which the elder woman understood, she took her granddaughter from him and pulled her close. She twisted and smiled at John, then her eyes settled on the cat who had finished eating and was now licking her front paw.

Siger poke his head around the corner. “Morning all.”

“I hear we have you to thank for that” John pointed at the cat.

“She’s not that bad is she?” He asked, worried, stepping into the kitchen.

“She loves Maeve from what we’ve seen so far,” John informed him. “But she bit me.”

Sherlock snorted. “She woke me up.”

“She was probably hungry.” Violet scolded them and held her free hand out of the cat. Jade sniffed it and then rubbed against it.

“Are you here for a reason?” Sherlock asked, retaking his seat and biting a chunk out of his toast.

“A flying visit.” His mother answered, smiling at her granddaughter.

“Have you got any plans for the rest of the day?” Siger asked.

John placed two cups of tea on the table, one for Violet and the other for Siger.

John shook his head.

“Would you care for some sport?” Siger asked.

John looked slightly confused at his partner but Sherlock simply rolled his eyes. He finally asked, “What kind?”

“I enjoy golf but I highly doubt that it’s your sport.”

“You’ve got that right.” John chuckled.

“Shooting range.”

John considered it for a moment then nodded slowly, he looked at Sherlock. “That okay love?”

“Why wouldn’t it be?” Sherlock asked, narrowing his eyes slightly.

“I just thought you might want me to stick around,” John shrugged.

“No, it’s fine.” Sherlock gestured vaguely with his hand. “No doubt Mummy and I, will be spending the morning together.”

“I thought we could go for a walk,” Violet mused out loud. “Do some shopping.”

Sherlock looked bored by the suggestion but his father nudged his father and he quickly faked a smile at his mother. He managed, “It sounds…lovely.”

Violet smiled, not entirely convinced, and stroke the cat with her free hand while holding Maeve with the other. Jade began purring loudly. She meowed to get more attention and Violet bent her knees slightly so that the cat could see Maeve. She immediately rubbed her body against the infant.

“I better get ready.” John announced and ducked into the hallway by the bedroom.

Sherlock heaved and sigh and climbed to his feet.

“Do you want me to get her ready?” His mother asked.

“There are clothes in her bedroom.” He instructed and followed the blonde into their bedroom.

Violet straightened up and jiggled her granddaughter a little bit. “Come on then princess, let’s get you ready.”

 

 

 

Sherlock had Maeve strapped into her papoose. The changing bag hooked over his shoulder, he wore no coat, only his usual pristine suit and white shirt. He had one hand over her head, keeping her close to his body. His mother walked in line with him, her two steps equal to one of his, and she watched her son and granddaughter, keeping only a weathered eye on the pathway ahead.

“Stop it.”

“Pardon?” His mother asked.

“Stop staring at me.” He instructed. “And smiling.”

Sherlock twisted his neck to look at his mother. She sighed. “It’s a lovely day.”

“Stop being…soppy.” He spat the last word.

“I’m allowed to be happy.”

“Yes but you are annoyingly so.”

 

 

 

“This is adorable.” His mother declared, holding up brightly coloured floral playsuit.

“It’s…bright.” Sherlock managed.

The sales assistant that was stood close by suppressed a smirk behind his fist.

His mother ignored him and picked it up in the correct size. “Is there anything you needed?”

“A baby hardly requires more clothes.” He pinched the bridge of his nose.

“She gets through them quickly.” His mother reminded him, as if he needed reminding.

“If she gets through them so quick, why are you insisting on buying her designer labels?” He asked.

“You wear designer labels.” His mother responded dryly. She picked up another two playsuits.

“I’m a grown man.”

“Would you rather her wear cheap, possibly irritable materials?” She asked.

Sherlock frowned and took a deep breath.

She continued thoughtfully, “you have sensitive skin.”

“Had.” He corrected.”

“So you no longer wear your pyjama tops inside out?” She asked with a raised eyebrow.

Sherlock didn’t answer. Instead he picked up a small romper with grey hearts on and handed it to his mother. Violet didn’t bother suppressing her smirk. Sherlock rolled his eyes and told her, “Shut up.”

The sale assistant didn’t bother to suppress his laugh.

 

 

 

“I wonder how your father and John are getting on.” Violet mused aloud.

They had stopped at a café and were now indulging in a cream tea.

“Swimmingly, I’m sure.” Sherlock told her, smiling over the rim of his cup.

“I bet he’s quite a good shot, your army doctor.”

“The best.” Sherlock pursed his lip to hide his smile and placed his cup back in its saucer.

Maeve was sat on his lap, happily staring at her grandmother and the rest of the café, blue eyes flicking interestedly over the occupants. She gurgled enthusiastically when Sherlock jiggled her softly on his knee and looked up at him, craning her neck and then returned to her original position, staring at her grandmother and the stuff on the table between them.

“I’m not sure what possessed your father to get a cat.” She sighed. “I have no idea what’s going through that man’s mind most of the time.”

“Well, it’ll certainly be an adjustment.”

“I never thought you one for cats.”

“I’m not.” He confirmed and accepted the plate with the scone his mother offered.

He placed it on the table and dipped his finger into the large dollop of cream. He popped it into his mouth.

Violet frowned at him. “I can’t take you anywhere.”

“Then, why do you?” Sherlock asked sounding entirely too amused.

Violet ignored the question and nodded towards her son’s scone. “Do you want me to cut that?”

Sherlock shook his head and picked up one half of his scone. He bit into it and placed it immediately back on the small plate, he wiped the bits of cream and jam from the corners of his mouth with his fingers.

“It’s good to see you eating.” His mother commented.

“I eat with you on Sundays.” He frowned and spoke, mouth still mostly full. “I had toast when you came over this morning.”

“You know what I mean.” She said dryly. She focused on her granddaughter and smiled, “look at you supporting your head.”

“Yes.” Sherlock looked down at his daughter. “She’s very strong.”

“A very smart young lady.”

“Indeed.” Sherlock agreed.

Maeve gurgled loudly.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Hungry?”

Maeve looked up at him, craning her neck, and gurgled again in response.

“You can wait a little longer.” He said more to himself than her.

Maeve released an irritated growl and reached towards the table. Her tiny hand landed on the scone and fingers sunk into the cream with a wet squelch. She pulled back, looking far too pleased with herself and attempted to shove her fist into her waiting mouth. Sherlock caught it with his free hand. Violet chuckled.

“Thank you.” He told her. He lent down and took her small fist into his mouth, licking it clean of any cream and jam that she’d managed to pick up.

Maeve growled again.

“Not for you.” He said around her fingers. He released her fist and cautiously moved the scone further away.

“Would you like to take her home?” His mother asked.

Sherlock nodded.

 

 

 

Sherlock stepped into the living room and was greeted with the sight of his partner sat on the sofa, with Jade curled up in his lap, fast asleep, and his father in the blonde’s armchair nursing a cup of tea.

“Hey lovely.” The blonde greeted with a smile.

“Comfy?” The consulting detective asked with a smile, eyes flicking to the cat. He crossed the room and placed Maeve’s carseat on the desk, the movement slow and careful, she continued to sleep.

“Ohh.” John smiled back. “You’re being funny now.”

“Never.” Sherlock articulated carefully, glancing at John before removing his jacket and placing it on the back of one of the chairs. He unbuttoned his sleeves and rolled them to his elbows.

“I would help you but…” John gestured to the sleeping cat.

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

Violet appeared in the doorway with a soft smile.

“Good shopping trip?” John asked her.

“Very productive.” Violet confirmed with a smile. She gestured to the other armchair, Sherlock’s chair, and asked, “May I?”

“You hardly have to ask.” Sherlock drawled. He unstrapped Maeve and slowly picked her up, careful to support her sleeping head and body in both of his large hands. Her face scrunched up in the adorable way it always did when someone or something disturbed her sleep. He positioned her in his favourite way and she sighed in her sleep against his neck, a clear sign that she wasn’t ready to wake anytime soon.

“I’ll make some tea.” Siger announced.

“Don’t bother.” Sherlock replied in a bored tone. He sat beside John on the sofa, careful to not disturb the cat on his legs. Jade opened her eyes and looked up at the consulting detective for a moment before stretching and standing up. She licked her paw for a moment and shook her head to wake up. She then decided it was time to move and jumped across onto the desk and began staring out of the window.

Mrs Hudson ascended the stairs with a tray.

“Mrs Hudson, you didn’t have to.” John argued softly, stretching his now free legs.

“Just this once mind you, I’m not your housekeeper.” She reminded him as she placed the tray on the table beside Siger. Sherlock and John grinned at one another but said nothing. She noticed the cat and frowned, “oh, Sherlock, what’ve you got a cat for?”

“Fancied a pet.” He shrugged.

“Cause you haven’t already got your hands full.” She commented, placing her hands on her hips and looked pointedly at the baby he was cradling.

Sherlock looked down at his daughter and grinned. “I rather like having my hands full.”

“I can tell.” Mrs Hudson sighed. “You hardly ever put her down.”

“Just a warning.” Siger interrupted the exchange with a small smile. “The cat is quite…particular.”

John snorted and Sherlock grinned, hiding it by placing his lips on his daughter’s head.

“Particular?” Mrs Hudson repeated, her voice high like it always was when she was confused, eyes flicking over the occupants of the room.

“She doesn’t like to be touched.” Her continued.

Mrs Hudson frowned and Violet assured her. “She won’t harm Maeve.”

“But the rest of us are fair game.” John muttered.

Mrs Hudson sighed. “Fine. But I’m not looking after it.”

John snorted and looked at Sherlock. “No, I believe that’s my job.”

Sherlock looked affronted and reminded him. “I have my hands full John.”

John chuckled and lent forward to place a kiss on the infant’s head.

“Don’t use your daughter as an excuse.” He teased.

“She is the ultimate excuse.” Sherlock reminded him.

 

 

 

Siger hovered back when John walked Violet to the car.

“You can call us,” he reminded his son, “whenever you need anything.”

Sherlock frowned. “I know.”

“I know you do but I want you to actually consider it every once in a while.”

“Bored of retirement.” Sherlock deduced.

“Can you blame me?” Siger smirked.

“No.” His youngest son answered.

“And call your brother he’s worried sick about you.” Siger instructed him.

Sherlock rolled his eyes.


	43. Eighty-Seven Days Old

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Maeve spend some time together while Sherlock works a case, and here comes Harry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm finished with exams and stuff!! So yes, plenty of time for writing. This chapter would have been done sooner but I had massive writers block.  
> Follow me on instagram: Tiffanilouise95

“I left the papoose out for you, it’s on the desk and the bag is on the table.” Sherlock rambled, pulling on his coat and fastening his scarf. His eyes were flicking over the flat in small rapid motions and occasionally settled on John, standing in the bedroom doorway with Maeve in his arms. The blonde looked annoyed and amused. “There’s a bottle on the side…”

“I know Sherlock.” John hushed him.

“And I’ll be back.”

“The moment the case is over.”

“You’ll be fine.” Sherlock nodded.

“I know that and you know that.” John sighed and nodded towards the baby in his arms. “Even she knows that. There’s no need to be yourself worked up.”

Sherlock frowned, “I’m not worked up.”

“Stop fussing then.” John snapped, his smile betraying him.

“Not fussing.” Sherlock sniffed. “Just checking.”

“Now you’ve finished checking, you can go, Greg’s waiting for you.”

Sherlock nodded and kissed John once on the cheek. “Have fun.”

“We will.” The blonde nodded.

Sherlock kissed his daughter on the back of her head and with a lingering glance left the flat.

“You’re daddy worries.” John told the infant.

Maeve gurgled quietly.

“We’re going to have a nice day in.” He walked into the living room.

 

 

 

“I don’t know how your daddy does it.” John commented.

Maeve blinked up at him.

“Looking after you all day, it’s rather, boring.”

Maeve looked affronted but the expression quickly morphed into a smile at the sight of her papa crouched in front of her with her cuddly bee toy in his hand.

“What do you and Daddy do all day?”

Maeve sneezed and looked shocked by it.

John snorted.

“I bet your daddy is driving Uncle Greg crazy.”

His phone vibrated on the table.

“Speak of the devil.”

John reached behind him, careful to keep his eyes on Maeve and picked up the mobile. Three new messages, two from Sherlock, and one from Harry. He frowned and opened the message.

The blonde sighed and edged closer to Maeve. She watched him with wide blue eyes. “Shall we go and see Aunty Harry?”

Maeve opened her mouth as though she was going to speak but closed it again, and John scooped her up.

“Let’s get you dressed.”

 

 

 

Sherlock would murder him.

The blonde hurried down the street in a bid to avoid the rain, it was wet and cold, a typical stormy July day, and he had wrapped himself up in his best coat, it was hardly waterproof but it was sufficient. One of his hands held the umbrella, a gift from Mycroft and luckily, sturdy, and the other was on Maeve’s covered head. She was wearing a pink bunny outfit that his partner would most definitely not approve of. It had ears and everything. And Sherlock would murder him if he saw her.

But she looked adorable and was protected against the sharp breeze, strapped to his chest in the papoose.

The café was only a couple of streets away and luckily not too crowded as he approached. He could see Harry in the window, but she was focused on her hands.

A woman leaving the café paused and held the door open for him.

“Thank you.” John smiled, put down his umbrella and stepped into the café.

He glanced down at Maeve, she was quiet but awake. He stroke a hand over the back of her head, “you’re ok.”

There was a small vibration which he knew was a growl.

“John.” His sister looked up from her hands and her small smile dropped.

“Harry.” He greeted with a tight smile.

“What?” She managed, blinking for a moment and gesturing to Maeve. “What the fuck is that?”

“Eloquent as always,” he frowned and took the seat opposite. It struck him how much he sounded like Sherlock but he shook the thought from his head. “And that, is my daughter.”

Harry was dumbstruck. “Your daughter?”

“Yes, haven’t you seen the papers?” John frowned.

“I’ve been out of touch for a…bit.”

“Rehab.” He guessed.

Harry nodded.

“How long?”

“A few months.” She shook her head in disbelief. “But you, you’ve had a baby.”

“Sherlock is her biological father.”

“And you’re?”

“Her Papa.” John rubbed her back through the papoose.

“So you’ve decided to co parent his child.”

John frowned.

Harry continued. “Where is he now? You’re looking after his child and he’s what, swanning around…”

John interrupted firmly, “He’s not, no, he’s not swanning around. The last week has been hard on him, it’s his first case since…well it’s been hard.”

“I just don’t understand.” She shook her head.

“Can we just, stop this, for a moment?” He asked. Harry considered it but nodded slowly.

John shrugged off his coat and unstrapped the papoose. Maeve did not make it an easy task, squirming and whining as John struggled with only two hands to hold both her and the papoose, when he was done, and he placed the papoose on the empty chair between him and Harry. He pushed the hood back and placed Maeve on his lap, she stared towards Harry with inquisitive blue eyes. After a few moments she blinked and her eyes scanned over the rest of the café.

“She’s er….”

“A baby.” John smiled.

“Nothing of you in her.” Harry quipped.

“Very funny.”

“I’m guessing, she looks like him” she gestured towards Maeve, whose eyes struggled to follow the fast moving limb.

John nodded.

She continued, “And you’re together now?”

John nodded again. “Yes.”

Harry sat back in her chair and sighed loudly.

He pursed his lips and deduced, “you don’t approve.”

“Have you told Mum and Dad?” She deflected.

“No.”

“Why?”

“I haven’t spoken to them.”

Harry managed a smile at that, “neither have I.”

“I’m not sure how to…” he gestured with his free hand.

“Come out?” She guessed.

“Something like that.”

Harry sighed, “You’ll be fine, and they know that you dabble.”

“Dabble?” He repeated.

“You know what I mean.”

“Dabble.”

“The kid will be a bigger shock.” She pursed his lips.

“Her name is Maeve, not that or kid.” He corrected.

“How are you going to tell them?”

“I haven’t thought about it.” He admitted.

“They’ll be over the fucking moon.” Harry rubbed a hand over her face. “Grandkids at last.”

“Not in the most conventional way.”

“When has our family ever been conventional?”

“True.” He nodded. Maeve whined. “Hey, sweetheart, you’re ok.”

“So, what’s it like?” Harry cleared her throat.

“What?”

“Having a kid.”

“Not without its difficulties.” John admitted, “But Sherlock is…well, amazing. He’s just amazing.”

“Not an arrogant bastard.”

John winced, hearing his own words from his sister’s mouth. “He was made for this.”

“Being a father?” Harry looked sceptical.

John nodded. “He’s taken it in his stride.”

“And you’re happy?”

He nodded again. “I have an amazing boyfriend and a daughter, we even have a cat.”

“Got it all sorted out.” Harry managed a smile.

John lent forward slightly, shifting his grip on Maeve so that she moved with him. Maeve looked up but entertained herself with his hand that was resting on the table, small hands running over it. “You’re doing alright, yeah?”

Harry nodded quickly. “Better now.”

“And how is sobriety treating you?”

“It sucks but has its merits.”

“And Clara?” John broached.

Harry looked down at the table. “We’re talking and it’s looking good, slowly.”

John nodded. Maeve whined again and he twisted her around, so that her body was pressed against his chest and her head on his shoulder she immediately grabbed onto his t-shirt and started mouthing the fabric. He finally responded. “That’s good.”

“She seems…”

John narrowed his eyes.

Harry pursed her lips and continued, “Happy.”

“She’s twelve weeks old.”

“You know what I mean.” Harry sighed, annoyed.

John could see she was trying. “Yes, I do, she is extremely happy.”

“And you, you’re happy.” Harry looked at her brother.

John nodded.

“I’m glad.”

“What’s this about Harry?” He asked, clearing his throat.

“I just thought it was time for a catch up.”

“Because…” he trailed off.

“Part of the process, make amends and that shit.”

“Language.” He scolded, frowning and looking down at the baby in his arms.

She rolled her eyes. “And I know you disapproved…”

“No,” he started.

“Please, let me finish.” She said firmly. “You disapproved of me and my habits, and I want to be in your life, and hers, if that’s what you’d like.”

“I would like that.” John nodded.

“And maybe I could meet your boyfriend at some point.”

“I wouldn’t call him that, not in his presence. He prefers partners.” Harry raised an eyebrow and he explained. “Boyfriend sounds like adolescent boys, apparently.”

Harry chuckled at that. “Bit picky is he, your man.”

“You have no idea.”

Harry looked out of the window, then back at John. She smiled, and nodded towards the window. “That him?”

The door opened and Sherlock stepped inside. His coat was wet and the collar turned up to protect against the weather, his curls were drench and sticking to his face.

“Sherlock.” John greeted, twisting to look up at the taller man.

Sherlock’s eyes flicked over the blonde and his daughter first, then over Harry and the corner of his mouth twitched like it always did when he was deducing a person for the first time, and something was vaguely interesting. He focused back on his partner and the baby.

The first thing to come out of his mouth was the exclamation, “what on earth is she wearing?”

“It was cold.” John defended. “And wet.”

Sherlock lent forward and plucked his daughter from the seated man’s arms. “It’s a rabbit.”

“It was cold!” John repeated, firmer.

“Yes, it slipped my mind, to counteract the cold we must dress as rabbits.”

“Bunny rabbits.” He corrected.

Sherlock glared at him. “This isn’t funny John.”

“It is a bit.” John managed a tight smile. “And she looks cute.”

Sherlock did not look convinced.

John cleared his throat and gestured towards his sister. “This is Harry.”

“Obviously,” Sherlock murmured, nuzzling his daughter’s cheek. She jerked at the wet hair that slid against her skin but allowed it, she even smiled, and gurgled in excitement.

“It’s good to meet you.” She managed a smile.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes and asked, “Is it?”

“Good case?” John interrupted.

“Dull.” Sherlock answered in a bored tone.

“Worth leaving the house?”

“Hardly.”

“Did you want a drink?”

Sherlock shook his head.

“Are you going to sit down?” Harry asked, already losing her patience.

“No.”

John scrubbed a hand over his face. Harry frowned and stared up at the taller man. “You’re not going to sit down, then, why are you here?”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes and opened his mouth to speak but John interjected. “Wednesday.”

Harry’s frown deepened.

John explained. “Maeve sees her uncle Mycroft on Wednesday.”

“Seriously?” Harry asked.

“Yes.” Sherlock sniffed.

“But they only just got here.”

“And?” Sherlock looked vaguely confused.

“You can’t just come in and take her from him.”

John sighed and hid his face in his hands. “Leave it Harry.”

“Get fucked.” She spat at her younger brother.

Sherlock’s pale eyes narrowed at her. “You don’t approve.”

“Stop now.” John warned, his voice level, warning them both and not just Sherlock. Interesting.

“You’re under the impression that I’ve somehow coerced John into this relationship.”

“Well, the last time we spoke he was dating women and not the father to your child.” She said matter-of-factly.

Sherlock looked far more imposing that any man holding a baby dressed in a pink rabbit onesie should, his pale eyes were narrow and the pupil’s small, darting over Harry, and his lips pulled into a thin line. “Three months.”

“What?” Harry asked, brows knitting in confusion.

“The last time you spoke. Three months.” Sherlock said.

“What the fuck has that got to do with anything?”

Sherlock’s expression clearly said ‘are you an idiot’. “Well, you’re hardly close.”

“And what?”

“Why would John call you?” Sherlock’s head tilted thoughtfully. “It’s no secret that he disapproves of you –“

“Enough.” John interrupted, rising to his feet.

Sherlock stopped immediately and looked at the ground as though he was embarrassed with himself. He wasn’t.

“I can see why you haven’t told mum and dad about him.” Harry mumbled.

John closed his eyes and took a deep calming breath. When he opened his eyes again he was calmer but there was something dangerous lingering behind. His voice was steady. “I haven’t told them yet because they…fuss.”

“Of course they fuss, you went off to the army without a second thought –” Harry argued.

John cut her off. “That’s not true.”

Maeve whined loudly, a warning that she was upset and more would make her cry. Sherlock’s attention was on her, watching her face for any change and he jiggled her softly. John twisted to check that she was ok, cleared his throat and turned back to Harry. “You want to be in my life; fine, but you need to accept that Sherlock will be in my life-“

“Always.” Sherlock muttered.

“-and the centre of that world is our daughter, Maeve.”

“You shouldn’t be with him just because of her.” Harry exhaled.

John shook his head. “I love Sherlock.

“But I’m your sister.”

“Yes, but you’ve only ever cared about yourself.” And with that John picked up the papoose from the chair and gestured for Sherlock to go first, the dark haired man stared at him for a second before following his lead and exiting the café. He drew his coat around his body and over his daughter, shielding her from the rain while he was drenched, his hair flattening and drips pouring from his lips.

John put up the umbrella and pulled Maeve’s hood over her face. Then, he replaced Sherlock’s coat, pulling it over her small body and the umbrella high for a moment. Sherlock said something but Harry couldn’t quite make it out. John nodded and lifted the umbrella away from his partner, they took off across the street, her brother just keeping up with the taller man.

 

 

 

“I presume that Harriet did not take it well.” Mycroft said quietly once John had left the room.

Sherlock snorted. “She’s sober.”

Mycroft bounced his niece on his knee and glanced over her head, raising one eyebrow.

“She is under the impression that I’ve somehow coerced John into a relationship.” Sherlock informed his elder brother, though he had no doubt that Mycroft was already aware. “She does not approve of our relationship or his parenting my child.”

Mycroft frowned and refocused his attention on his niece. She stared up at him for a moment before smiling and reaching towards him with her small hands, fingers clenching and unclenching in a display of what she wanted. He sighed, pretending to be put out, and lifted her to rest against his chest. He told her. “I would prefer you not dirty my suit.”

Maeve gurgled and grasped his suit.

“Dinner meeting.” Sherlock deduced, uninterested.

“Are you hungry my dear?”

“One bottle.” John announced as he came back into the room. He placed it on the small table beside the chair and walked over to the desk. He frowned, “did you use my laptop again?”

“Mine was in the bedroom.” Sherlock waved vaguely with his left hand.

The auburn haired man nodded and refocused his attention on his niece, craning his neck to look down at her. She smiled up at him. He smiled back and picked up the bottle to show her, her eyes narrowed and her smile dropped slightly, replaced by a look of anticipation. He placed the bottle back on the table for a moment and shifted her into the correct position, cradled in one arm and picked it back up, popping the lid off with one finger and offered it to her. He guided the teat into her mouth and she suckled from it hungrily.

“Don’t let her eat too fast,” Sherlock told him.

Mycroft stilled and popped the teat from her mouth. “Are you going to spend the entire hour lecturing me on how to take care of my niece?”

“Reminding.” Sherlock corrected with a frown.

The elder Holmes sibling rolled his eyes and pressed the bottle to her lips once more.

“Why can’t you go and get your own laptop?” John asked.

“Why did you dress my daughter as a rabbit?” Sherlock countered.

John scrubbed a hand over his forehead. “It was cute.”

“And pink!” he muttered in distaste.

“It was warm.” John added.

“We have had a discussion about ridiculous outfits, they make me look silly.”

“You?” John repeated. Sherlock’s eyes narrowed in confusion and the blonde continued. “Is Sherlock Holmes afraid of looking stupid with his daughter dressed in pink?”

“No, with her dressed as a rodent.”

“A rabbit John, really?” Mycroft asked, a smirk playing on his lips.

“Shut up,” John groaned, “the pair of you.”

 

 

 

Sherlock stopped short in the doorway at the sight of his brother. The auburn haired man was stood next to the window, looking out at the rain and swaying softly from side to side as Maeve drifted to sleep in his arms. He frowned at the sight and crossed his arms over his chest. “I thought that you had a meeting.”

Mycroft glanced over his shoulder at his younger brother. “I have time.”

“You are welcome to watch her sleep at any time,” Sherlock offered. “Saves me the trouble.”

“You don’t have to watch her.” Mycroft smirked.

“No.” Sherlock agreed with a frown, “its…calming.”

Mycroft nodded. “Yes, it is.”

“Reassuring.”

“I will be leaving momentarily.”

Sherlock’s frown deepened and he shook himself from his thoughts. “Stay as long as you wish, just, don’t annoy John.”

“More than you already have?” Mycroft raised an eyebrow.

He pursed his lips, “something like that.”

 

 

 

Mycroft carefully set down his niece in her Moses basket, he watched her for any signs of waking and when he was content that she wouldn’t wake, he ran a hand through her hair and bent down to place a kiss on her forehead. He left the room, closing the door quietly and retrieved his umbrella.

“You leaving?” John asked, looking up from his laptop.

Mycroft nodded. “Duty calls.”

“It was nice seeing you.” The blonde smiled and got back to his blog writing.

“Sherlock.” The auburn haired man said.

The consulting detective’s eyes flicked to his brother.

“She’s asleep,” he told him with a pointed look.

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed in confusion. “Yes.”

“The monitor is on.”

He plucked the monitor from the pile of newspapers beside the sofa and turned it on. The image of his sleeping daughter appeared and he placed it on the table.

Mycroft continued, “I’ve taken the liberty of having some shopping delivered. Enjoy the rest of your day.”

Sherlock nodded.

Mycroft smiled and left.

“What was that about?” John asked, confusion written all over his face.

“You know what he’s like.” Sherlock offered in explanation.

 

 

 

John was pacing the flat, his phone at his ear and Maeve in his free hand. She was running her hand over his chest and gurgling loudly, in impatience.

Sherlock frowned and pretended to be reading his emails.

“That’s great mum,” John said rather flatly. “I’m calling because I have something to tell you, you and dad.”

He paused, listening to the response and bounced slightly to keep the infant entertained.

“I’m seeing someone.”

Sherlock’s eyes flicked to him.

“Yes, well actually he’s my flatmate, Sherlock…we’re together now and well, and we’re parents.”

John looked at Sherlock and their eyes met.

“You’re grandparents.”

There was silence. Maeve whined loudly and John hushed her quietly, he double his efforts with bouncing her up and down. She gurgled. “She’s twelve weeks, her name is Maeve and Sherlock is the biological father…yes, I’m sure that could be arranged. Ok, yes, I’ll call you soon, I promise. Love you too, bye.”

John quickly pocketed his phone and pulled Maeve to rest on his chest.

“You told them.” Sherlock was stunned.

“Yes.” John nodded and frowned, “you didn’t think I would?”

Sherlock shook his head quickly. “I thought you-”

“I’m not ashamed of you.” John cut him off.

“I know that.” He frowned.

“I know you do but still, I’m not ashamed of you.”

Sherlock’s eyes darted to his daughter.

John added, “or her, this our life, not ashamed.”

“You waited twelve weeks to tell your sister.” The consulting detective reminded him.

“As you said, we’re hardly close.”

“You’ve never got on.”

John shook his head slowly. “We made different choices, Harry’s was alcohol.”

“You were the…”

“Golden boy.” He supplied. “According to Harry.”

“They didn’t approve of her.” Sherlock deduced.

“Not because of her choice of partner.”

“The alcohol.”

John nodded.

Sherlock continued, “You aren’t close with your parents.”

“Neither were you.” The blonde reminded him with a tight lipped smile.

Sherlock tilted his head slightly, “you came back to London and didn’t ask for their help.”

“Not the way I was raised. I wanted to be a doctor, I worked for it, three jobs to get me through school and the army to pay for my medical degree.”

“You did not have it easy.”

“Neither did you.” John said sombrely.

“By my own choice.” Sherlock reminded him.

John shrugged. “Same difference.”

“Hardly.” Sherlock snorted.

“You shouldn’t argue with your doctor.” The blonde raised an eyebrow.

Sherlock smiled despite himself, constantly surprised that John was able to extract such reactions from him.

 

 

 

“Your parents are coming to visit.”

“No, I said that we’d go to them.”

“What?” Sherlock practically jumped up. “Why would you say that?”

“I thought it was easier.” John answered.

“For who?” The consulting detective flopped back onto the bed.

“They don’t live far, fifty minutes on the train.”

“You want me to take my daughter on a train?” Sherlock looked up at him.

“What on earth could you have against trains?” John pinched the bridge of his nose.

“Germs.” He muttered, full on petulant child.

“Grow up.”


	44. Eighty-Eight Days Old

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock, John and Maeve go down to Brighton for the day to visit John's parents.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry that this update took so long. I want to blame it on moving from one house to another to another, but the main reason is that i struggled with this chapter. I love this fic and the struggle I had with chapter is just heartbreaking. I think it's because of the new characters that I'm attempting to include, so hopefully, another update shouldn't be too far off.  
> I want to ask you a question and want your honest opinions. I love this fic and plan to continue it until we reach Maeve's first birthday, then move onto a follow-on fic, but do you think this is a good idea? Like, is it any good or is the quality just getting worse? I need to know honest opinions because I feel like this fic is just getting worse and worse, and I don't want that, and if that's what people think, I'll just edit it or something.  
> Don't worry, I'm not planning to abandon or delete this fic.  
> Thank you for your patience.

 

Sherlock Holmes absentmindedly rubbed his daughter’s back in a figure of eight pattern, the other hand was on her bum, supporting her against his chest as she snored softly, breath caressing his collar bone through the gap in his shirt. There was a blanket over her body, small and light, and she wore a white dress and knickers with a small bird print.

John shifted on his chair and cleared his throat, “you ok?”

Sherlock’s cloudy eyes opened and settled on his partner. “Fine.”

“Sure?”

His eyes narrowed and he deduced. “You’re concerned.”

“I just want you to be comfortable.” The blonde assured him.

“I’m as comfortable as one can be on a train.”

“Snob.”

A mixture of annoyance and amusement flashed across his face.

“She ok?” John nodded towards the infant.

Sherlock nodded.

“Have you been to Brighton before?” John asked.

“As a child.” The dark haired man answered.

“Did you like it?”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. Why was John asking so many questions? Nerves.

The slight sweat on his forehead and palms suggested as much but the heat contributed to that. 

“I loved the beach.” He admitted.

“Did you parents bring you?”

“Once.” He tilted his head slightly and continued to rub Maeve’s back.

“Ours is the next stop.”

John looked at the ground. He was definitely nervous. Worried.

Sherlock nodded. “Will your parents like me?”

John’s attention snapped to his lover and his expression softened quickly. “Yes, of course they will. Why? Are you scared they won’t?”

Sherlock shook his head.

“It’s a normal thing to be scared of.” John said thoughtfully.

“Dull.” The dark haired man murmured and dropped his head to rest his lips on his daughter’s head.

“God forbid that you sound dull.”

“Exactly.” He muttered into her scalp.

John pursed his lips. “My mother will love you.”

“And your father?” His eyes flicked to John.

“My father wants me to be happy. You make me happy.”

“And that’s enough?” Sherlock looked like a lost puppy.

“It’s always enough.” He smiled.

Sherlock lifted his head and nodded.

 

 

 

It was a regular sized sky blue house with a white door in a row of similarly light painted house, whites, pinks and yellows. John smiled, squeezed his knee over the carseat between them and climbed out of the cab. Sherlock took a steadying breath and looked down at his daughter, she was awake and clearly not happy about it. Her lip jutted out and her forehead was creased.

“Into battle.” He whispered to her.

Maeve’s brows raised slightly and he bent down to kiss the remaining creases.

John retrieved the buggy and bag from the boot.

Sherlock unstrapped the carseat and picked it up as he climbed out of the car.

John helped him to attach the carseat to the frame of the buggy and Sherlock paid the cabbie. The cab pulled away from the curb and the taller man plucked his daughter from the seat, holding her in his large hands. He kissed the top of her head in a bid to keep her happy. She continued to frown but her hands fisted in his suit jacket and shirt.

“Ready?” The blonde asked with a small smile.

Sherlock nodded and watched as the front door opened to reveal John’s parents.

A stocky man, much like John himself, with short light grey hair and blue eyes came out of the house first and hurried down the small pathway to the pavement. His skin was tanned and wrinkled, and he wore a pair of navy trousers and light blue shirt with short sleeves. And a woman followed, slightly shorter than her husband, it didn’t take a genius to figure out where John got his…stature from. She wore a floral dress with a cardigan, a simple gold cross and her wedding band. Her hair was a mixture of light brown and grey, tied into a scraggily pony tail at the back of her head.

“John.” His mother managed before pulling the blonde into a hug. She released him and his father immediately seized him in another hug. They stepped back and their attention moved to Sherlock, stood awkwardly a few steps behind his shorter partner with a baby in his arm.

“You must be Sherlock.” His mother greeted.

He managed a smile. “Yes.”

John stepped back, allowing them a better view of the taller man. “In the flesh.”

“It’s nice to meet you Mr and Mrs Watson.”

“None of that, you’re family.” His father smiled, well, he beamed. “Harold and Silvia.”

“And this must be your little girl.” Silvia grinned.

John smiled and nodded. “This is Maeve-“

“Our daughter.” Sherlock finished.

“Well, come inside.” Harold instructed with a small smile of pride and surprise, moving towards the pram.

“I’ll get it dad.” John told him.

“Come on Sherlock.” Silvia commanded softly. She place her arm on his arm and gently led him towards the house. He let her.

 

 

 

The house was simple, neat and homely.

“You can sit down.” Silvia told him.

Sherlock managed a slight mile and sat down on one of the two dark blue sofas.

John stepped into the room with his father.

“Sherlock,” Harold started, “John told me you were introduced by mutual friend.”

“Mike Stamford, we trained at Barts together.” John supplied.

“Yes,” Sherlock nodded and stretched out on the sofa like a cat, he took one arm off of his daughter and place it on the back on the sofa. “I told Mike I was looking for a flat share and he returned after lunch with your son.”

“And you just moved in?” His mother asked, curious. She took a seat opposite the consulting detective.

“He accompanied me on a case the following day,” Sherlock answered.

“A string of suspicious suicides.” John added. “And moved my stuff in the next day.”

“A fond friendship then.” Harold said with a smile.

John took the unoccupied seat beside Sherlock. Their legs pressed together and the taller man’s arm now practically wrapped over his shoulder. “Yes, the rents very reasonable and the location central.”

“You know the landlady,” Silvia said to Sherlock.

“Yes, I helped her with a problem a few years back in Florida.”

“A case, you’re a detective of sorts, yes?” Harold asked, his interest piqued. “John has told me but my memory isn’t as good as it used to be.”

“A consulting detective,” Sherlock offered, “the only one in the world.”

“So, you helped her on a case?”

Sherlock nodded. “Her husband was sentenced to death in Florida.”

“And you got him off a murder charge?” Silvia asked.

Sherlock opened his mouth and shut it again. His usual confidence almost non-existent.

John answered for him, holding back a wince. “Sherlock ensured Mr Hudson’s death.”

“Right.” Harold cleared his throat and changed the subject. “And this is Maeve?”

“Yes.” Sherlock nodded and glanced at the baby, uncharacteristically quiet against his chest, her eyes flicked up to meet his and she relaxed further into his hold.

“I must admit, we know very little about her, didn’t even know she existed until…yesterday, when John called.” Silvia said with no real bite, only vague annoyance and upset.

John turned red and Sherlock had to hold back a smile.

“Well, she’s eighty-eight days old, twelve weeks.” Sherlock told her softly. “We had her christened at the beginning of the month due to my mother’s insistence, her full name is Maeve Alexis Christine Holmes, and she is a very curious being.”

John chipped in, “She loves to explore people and faces. Hands. She loves hands.”

“Chewing on fingers.” The consulting detective sniffed.

“Yes, she doesn’t have a dummy instead she chews on our fingers.”

“She enjoys water and splashing people.”

“And well, she’s a three month old baby.” John snorted. “There’s not much else really.”

“What’s her routine like?” Harold asked.

“She has a great routine.” John answered. “She sleeps through the night and has regular naps and feeds.”

“She is not keen on travelling and prefers to not be alone.” Sherlock added.

“Does she sleep in a nursery or with you?” Silvia pressed for more information.

“She alternates, mostly she stays in our bedroom but occasionally we move her to the nursery, she prefers to be close to us.” Sherlock answered, his cheeks heating up.

“And is her mother involved?” Harold asked, his tone was undemanding and full of care.

Sherlock shook his head and looked down at his daughter. She was being uncharacteristically quiet against his chest, chewing on her own finger and gazing up at him occasionally. John cleared his throat gently and placed his hand on the taller man’s knee, he squeezed it encouragingly and gave a small nod. “Can I?”

Sherlock frowned and nodded.

John forced a smile and explained, keeping his voice soft. “Maeve’s mother abandoned her.”

Silvia jerked at the news and Harold took her hand in his own, his own expression was that of controlled sadness and…anger. She stammered. “Do you mind…where…where was she abandoned? If you don’t mind me asking.”

“Sherlock found her on our doorstep.” John answered.

“I heard the door and she was just there, I almost didn’t notice her, me, I almost didn’t notice her. I called John and we took her to the hospital, she was deemed ok by doctors and had a paternity test.” Sherlock rambled. “She is unequivocally mine, there is the obvious resemblance between us and well, there was a note, her mother left a note, it explained that she was mine and she was unfit to be a mother, not that that was in question considering her actions…” He trailed off at the sight of three pairs of eyes watching him with a mixture of sadness and horror.

John’s hand squeezed his knee harder.

Silvia looked to be on the verge of tears. “Are you ok?”

“Fine.” Sherlock frowned in confusion.

“It wasn’t the best of starts.” John concluded, managing a small smile. “But we are doing everything in our power to make sure that she is ok, more than ok, now. She needs us and we need her.”

Silvia was crying now.

Harold nodded. “You boys have been through a lot it would seem.”

“But we’ve gained more than we could have imagined.” Sherlock said sincerely.

“And it seems that you’ve settled into being a parent.” Harold nodded.

Silvia sniffled. “Do you have family close to help you?”

“My immediate family reside in London, my parents and my brother.” The consulting detective answered.

“Do you have a big family?” She asked, her crying settling down now.

“Yes but we are not close. My brother and I have a…” he paused, unable to find the right word.

“Weird relationship.” John finished with a puff of laughter, “they’re close but they don’t like you to think they are. Human error and all that. They think that emotions are for the weak…”

“A chemical defect. Love is a dangerous disadvantage.” Sherlock interjected.

John continued with an amused look. “And prefer not to show that they have any, they prefer reason and logic. They sit in the same room and glare at each other for hours instead of talking. Arch-enemy, I think was the term he used when I first met him.”

Sherlock nodded. “We have a difficult past.”

“Don’t get him started on his parents.” John sighed.

“My father and I have never seen eye to eye, I’ve always been a disappointment to him and in that regard, and he has been the same to me. Before Maeve came into our lives, I saw him two years previous, and before that, four years.”

“And your mother?” Harold asked.

“My mother is a social woman.” Sherlock admitted, his eyes fixed on Harold. “She is caring, compassionate, loving and trusting, but reputation means a great deal to them.”

“You didn’t give them enough credit.” John scolded him.

The detective conceded with a small nod of his head. “I was under the impression that a child conceived out of wedlock would not be acceptable in their eyes, let alone fathered by me, I was wrong in that regard, they have been nothing but supportive in my raising of Maeve, and interfere only because they care.”

“Can we, sorry, can we go back to the bit you said earlier?” Silvia asked. “About love.”

“Mum, Sherlock has a different outlook on love and emotions.” John told her.

“It’s fine John. Your mother is attempting to understand me which is part of the process of meeting ones parents.” Sherlock gave his partner a reassuring smile and turned his attention to Silvia. “Love is dangerous disadvantage to me and to my work, love is weakness and people prefer to act on weakness rather than strength. My love for my daughter makes her an easy target to any enemies I acquire while working, as does my love for my family and John.”

“Right.” Silvia frowned.

Harold cleared his throat. “Do you think that’s a possibility people using her to get to you?”

“It is a very real possibility.” John informed his dad. “I’m afraid there have been incidents already.”

“Attempted murder and kidnapping.” Sherlock announced.

“Murder.” Silvia exclaimed at the same moment that Harold repeated, face drained of colour. “Kidnapping.”

“Two separate incidents.”

“Perhaps I should explain while you make her bottle.” John offered.

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed and he nodded, sensing that John was offering him a brief exit. He pried Maeve from his chest and handed her to John, who accepted her wordlessly and held her in his smaller hands. The consulting detective stood up and gestured towards the kitchen, “May I?”

Silvia nodded.

 

 

 

Sherlock listened to the hushed voices as John explained and returned when the bottle was made and warmed to the precise temperature. John was sat in the exact same place he had been, now with Maeve nestled against his chest, her small fist running over the collar and button of his shirt. Silvia had a handkerchief in her hands and Harold was now perched on the arm of the sofa beside his son, his hand on the younger Watson’s shoulder.

“Would you like to feed her?” John asked, spotting Sherlock as he stalked back into the room.

“You can do it.” Sherlock told him. He sat in his original seat and watched John reposition Maeve so that she was cradled in one arm looking up at him. He handed the blonde the bottle.

“It seems that you haven’t had an easy run of it.” Harold said.

“It’s been a difficult few months.” Sherlock confirmed with a nod.

“I thought that we might go for a walk and get some dinner.” Silvia suggested.

“That sounds lovely Mum.” John responded.

 

 

 

“Can I hold her?” Silvia asked.

Sherlock nodded and gently pried the infant from his partner’s chest. Her face scrunched up and her hands balled into fists. He stood and held the infant over the coffee table, Silvia instantly took her, taking great caution, and cradled her. Maeve looked up at the stranger and blinked, with a flick of her eyes to Sherlock, she decided that she was safe and sighed contently. Harold immediately stood and moved closer to his wife, he peered over her shoulder at the infant in her arms.

“She is beautiful, just beautiful.” Silvia cooed.

She tickled her chin and Maeve flashes a gummy smile.

Silvia’s face lit up with an uncontrollable smile. “She is the spitting image of you.”

“It’s uncanny.” Harold added.

“I have been reliably informed.” Sherlock bit back a smile.

“She’s quite small.”

“Yes, she is small for her age but growing at a healthy rate.” John said, switching into doctor mode. “Sherlock was a small baby, his mother told me.”

Sherlock wrinkled his nose at the comment and snarled. “You’ve been talking to my mother.”

“Stop it.” John scolded and hit the taller man’s leg.

“Or What?” Sherlock raised his eyebrows in challenge.

John rolled his eyes. “Stop being difficult.”

Harold cleared his throat. “Sherlock, John tells us that you are rather brilliant.”

“He has used that adjective to describe me on various occasions.” The consulting detective admitted.

“Do you think you could show us?”

“Well, I have been informed that it’s hardly polite conversation.” He warned.

“Indulge us.” Harold said.

Sherlock pursed his lips and nodded towards the painting on the wall. “One of your Silvia.”

“Yes, but how did you know? I haven’t signed it.”

“No, but the paintings in the hallway use a similar brush stroke and palette of colour, one of which does have your signature, it’s a simple enough deduction that this is also one of your paintings.” Sherlock observed. “The frame is also handmade, Harold made it with great care and caution leading me to believe that he admires this painting above most, it’s his favourite but why? The scene is ordinary, somewhere in the Cotswolds judging from the local yellow limestone cottage and the scenery but it’s important, and aged, not new like the ones in the hallway, so this one is sentimental. A scene from a family holiday, the last one before John was deployed, if I’m right, but I’m always right.”

“How did you do that?” Harold asked.

“Obvious.”

Silvia and Harold exchanged a glance. “You got that all from looking at the painting and the frame.”

“No, the last part was a guess, a good one though,” Sherlock admitted with a sly smile. “I observed your expression Harold when I mentioned the holiday, your eyebrows raised minutely, hardly noticeable for anybody that isn’t me, you were surprised but pleasantly, not unpleasantly, from the age of the painting and the frame I deduced that it was from before John’s deployment.”

“That is quite extraordinary.” Harold said after a moment.

Silvia asked, “And you can do that with anyone? Anything? Just from looking?”

Sherlock nodded. “Simply put, but yes, I observe and draw conclusions based on my observations.”

“I’ve never seen anything like it.” She exclaimed.

“Comes in quite handy in detective work I’m sure.” Harold smiled.

“So, how about that walk?” John asked.

 

 

 

Sherlock pushed the pram along the seafront with ease. John and Silvia were two steps behind him, immersed in conversation about the neighbours or something just as trivial. Harold walked beside him, eyes flicking from the pavement to the pram every few seconds.

Harold cleared his throat quietly and asked, “Do you enjoy being a father?”

“Yes,” Sherlock answered truthfully.

“It comes with its own challenges.” Harold admitted, “But it’s worth every moment.”

“Yes, I believe it is.”

“I always knew I wanted children, and John, he was much the same. You however, do not seem the type.”

Sherlock managed a slight smile. “I never imagined a scenario in which I was a father. The thought never occurred to me. Children are not my area of expertise. I, there was a moment when I considered not taking her, at the beginning, after I realised she was mine but the idea…”

Harold smiled reassuringly.

He continued, “The concept of leaving her, of abandoning her, was worse than any scenario that I could imagine. I’ve seen worse people parent children, if they can do it, it stands to reason that I can.”

“That’s a…good way to look at it.”

“I know that I can be a good father.” Sherlock said, lowering his tone. “And with you son by my side, I know that I can give Maeve everything that she needs.”

Harold clasped his hands behind his back. “Good, I can see how much he cares about you, both of you, I’ve never seen him look at anybody like that before.”

“We are very lucky to have him in our lives.”

“And him, lucky to have you.” Harold confirmed.

 

 

 

They set up on the beach, sat in a small semi-circle with paper wrapped chips. Sherlock was sat with Maeve on his lap, sat up with her back against his chest looking out at the beach, sea, and people littering it. Her blue eyes flew over all the new sight with wild excitement. Sherlock kept her grounded with a large hand on over her stomach and chest, the other he used to pick up single chips and pop them into his mouth.

John pursed his lips beside him. “Does she need sun cream?”

“No.” Sherlock answered.

John frowned in confusion, his brow furrowing and lips pulling into a straight line.

“She’s already wearing it.” Sherlock continued, popping another chip into his mouth.

“When?” John managed.

“This morning before we left Baker Street and I reapplied when I changed her, before we left the house.”

“Harold and I were talking,” Silvia said, “we’d like to come and visit you, if that’s ok.”

“You want to come to London?” John asked and Sherlock rolled his eyes.

“We want to visit you, see where you live.” She answered.

Harold added with a smile, “And see you, and Maeve of course.”

“We’d love that.” John smiled.

“We could come up for a weekend.”

“I’m sure my mother would love that.” Sherlock sighed. “A date can be arranged.”

“But in the meantime, can you at least call?” Silvia asked, looking hurt. “Twelve weeks, you waited twelve weeks to tell us that you were in a happy relationship and a father.”

John looked at Sherlock for help but the consulting detective merely smirked and muttered, “They’re your parents, it was your responsibility to tell them, not mine.”

“See.” Silvia said, gesturing towards the detective with an ‘I told you so’ look.

“How about letters?” John asked, “Like you did when I was in Afghanistan, we can send you photos and you can send whatever gifts you’re dying to buy.”

Silvia nodded eagerly.

“Thank you for bringing her down to meet us.” Harold said to Sherlock.

The consulting detective gave a slow, sure nod. “It’s been my pleasure.”

“This is him on a good day.” John told them. “You should see him when he’s in one of his moods.”

“John!” Sherlock exclaimed, cheeks heating up as Maeve jerked and attempted to twist her head to get a better look at him. He lifted and twisted her so that she was facing him, at level with his face. “Papa isn’t very nice to daddy, is he?”

Maeve gave a gurgle in response.

“No, he isn’t.” He took that as confirmation and brought her close to rest on his chest.

Maeve growled and hit her fists against his chest.

Sherlock gave John a pointed look. “See, you’ve upset her now.”

“I’ve upset her?” John asked, amused, “by insulting you.”

“She is very loyal.” Sherlock told him as though it was the most obvious thing in the world.

“You are a big baby.”

Sherlock pouted and craned his neck to look at his daughter. “Did you hear that? Papa thinks I’m a baby now.” Maeve growled again. “Yes, he’s a very mean man.”

“I may be mean but I need all the pity I can get with you two ganging up on me for the next sixteen years.”

“Twenty.” Sherlock corrected. John raised an eyebrow. He rolled his eyes and added. “In this economy she will be living with us until she is in her twenties with a stable job, especially with the London housing market.”

“Don’t give me that!” John huffed a laugh. “She already has a trust fund, not to mention the money she’s going to receive from you, your brother and your parents over the years, she’ll want for nothing for the rest of her life, and even then, would you want her to move out?”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes and purposely didn’t answer, instead he kissed the top of his daughter’s head.

“Old money?” Harold guessed.

“Yes.” John confirmed with a nod of his head.

Sherlock sniffed. “It’s not all old money, it was earnt and passed through generation. My grandfather was a businessman and my father, a government worker, much like Mycroft, they earnt their fortunes. My mother…well, she is from old money but her family also earnt their wealth.”

“It’s not an insult darling.” Silvia told him with a small smile. “What does your mother do?”

“My mother is a social woman, she and a group of friends put together parties and fundraisers. It’s dreadfully boring.” He explained in a bored tone. “I’ve suffered through many a party for her behalf.”

“Is she still involved with her social activities?”

“Yes,” Sherlock nodded. “She was never the type to slow down.”

“And your brother, I know you’ve mentioned him but what’s he like?” Harold asked.

“Mycroft is seven years my senior.” Sherlock responded in a cool tone. “He resides in Belgravia with his partner, a detective inspector for Scotland Yard and works in the government, behind the scenes.”

“And he’s like Sherlock but smarter.” John smiled.

Sherlock scowled at that. “Harold, I realise I have been rather remiss, would you care to hold her?”

Harold seemed startled by the question but nodded. Sherlock rose to his feet, elegant despite the stones, and placed Maeve in his arms. He held her for a moment before bringing her close.

John mouthed a ‘thank you’ to Sherlock.

 

 

 

“That went well, didn’t it?” John asked ten minutes after they’d boarded the train.

Sherlock opened his eyes and glared at his partner. “Yes.”

“They liked you,” he sounded unsure.

“Is that a question?” Sherlock asked, raising an eyebrow at the older man.

“No, they liked you.” John said, firmer this time.

“Then, why are we having this conversation?” He asked, more than a little peeved.

“I’m just…airing things,” he frowned, “what’s got your knickers in a twist?”

“Public transportation John,” Sherlock reminded him.

John frowned in confusion. “You’re in a mood because we’re on the train.”

“No.” Sherlock snarled and closed his eyes again. “You don’t understand.”

“Help me to.”

Sherlock took a deep steadying breath and opened his eyes once more. He shifted in his seat and lent forward, careful not to disturb Maeve, asleep against his chest. “You know how my mind works.”

“Yes, you observe things are deduce from it.”

“The people, the items, everything on this train, I see it all and I can’t shut it off.”

John frowned. “You’re…are you ok?”

“You being here helps.” Sherlock admitted, “And her. You help to numb the noise.”

“You can sleep, I’ll stay awake.”

“Not here.” The consulting detective said softly, “I’ll sleep when we’re home.”

John nodded. “You were amazing today and I never did thank you, so, thank you Sherlock Holmes.”

Sherlock’s eyes flicked over the blondes face for a second. “They’re your family, which means they are mine now.”

“Well, thank you anyway.” John repeated. “I know you find these things dull but it meant a lot to me.”

“You’ll have to make it up to me,” he smirked.

John chuckled. “I live with you, if anything, that was you making it up to me.”

Sherlock pursed his lips in consideration. “Fine, but you can feed her in the morning.”

“Why? You want a lay in?”

“I have several experiments to run and Molly finally has the body parts I need.”

There was a flash of horror across the face of a lady across the aisle.

John snorted and gave a small nod of apology.

“I can’t take you anywhere.” He said simply.

“Perhaps you should stop trying.” Sherlock suggested with a raised eyebrow before he scowled at the woman. She looked away.

“Play nice,” John reminded him.

“Always.” Sherlock said quietly as he lent back in his chair and relaxed with Maeve in his grip.


	45. Ninety-One Days Old

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Violet looks after Maeve.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is just a short, fluffy chapter. I'm going to start doing more important milestones and events otherwise this fic will go on forever. Basically, I'll be doing the same thing but skipping the day-to-day stuff because it can be boring and repetitive. So the next chapter will cover the entirety of John's parents visits and the next the holiday to France, so yeah, the chapters will probably be longer and may take a little longer (sorry) but yeah, we'll get into some more substantial stuff.   
> The chapter names will either be the week, like how old Maeve is in weeks, or if more happens in a small space of time, then it will be the age of the day (that doesn't make any sense) of the first day of the chapter, like it would be 'ninety-two days old' even if it covered a whole weekend.   
> I hope this makes sense.   
> So yeah, hopefully before the end of the year this fic will be finished. YAY!!!   
> THIS FIC WILL ONLY COVER THE FIRST YEAR OF MAEVE'S LIFE.  
> But don't be concerned because I already have two follow-on fics in mind. One that covers the important milesgtones after she turns one and the other from when she is a teenager.   
> Thank you for all your lovely comments last time, I was feeling anxious and just meh about this fic and you made me realize why I write it and love it. I even re-read a large chunk of it again. So yeah, thank you again, you guys are fab. Let me know what you think and just correct any mistake, their are probably loads in there.

 

 

Sherlock watched as his mother reached into the pram and pulled out a rather sleepy looking but awake Maeve. The infant squirmed and released a high whine but settled the moment she was pressed against the older woman’s chest and her head nestled into the crook of her neck.

“Where do you plan on taking her?” Sherlock asked absently as he stared at the screen of his phone from the doorway, eyes flicking over his mother for a second before returning to his phone.

“I thought we’d go for a walk, do some shopping.” Violet answered, smiling at the tired baby in her arms.

“Dull.” Sherlock muttered more to himself than anything.

“And what will you be doing darling?”

“I’ve got a few cases,” he pocketed his phone and turned his full attention to his mother and his daughter.

“I’ll bring her back to you later,” she assured him.

“I’ll text you when I’m home.” He told her.

“Did you have a good time in Brighton with John’s parents?”

“Mycroft.” Sherlock muttered.

“Don’t blame your brother, you didn’t tell us,” Violet raised an eyebrow at him. “I take it things went well.”

“Swimmingly.” He assured her.

“Are we going to meet them?”

“Assuredly.” Sherlock flashed an obviously fake smile.

“Is John working today?”

Sherlock stepped further into the room and dodged the question, “I fed her before I left, she slept the entire time, she could do with another hour, at most, no more, or the rest of her sleeps will be compromised, and she won’t sleep at night.”

Violet nodded and smiled at her son.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and continued. “There are spare clothes in the bag and three bottles and formula, if you require more…”

“I have some.” Violet interrupted.

Sherlock frowned at his mother. “Make sure to keep her out of direct sunlight, she has sun cream on and there’s a hat in the bottom of the pram. Her eyes are sensitive.”

“I know what I’m doing Sherlock.” She reprimanded gently.

“I’m just checking.”

“Worrying.”

“I do not worry.” Sherlock told her.

“Just go, dragging it out only makes it harder.” She instructed.

“I hate you.” He told her with no real bite. He sighed and crossed the room to stand in front of her, he ran his hand over Maeve’s head. Her eyes opened slowly and she yawned against his mother’s neck. He craned his neck and placed a single kiss atop of her head and looked up at his mother through his lashes. “Take care of her.”

“I will, now go.” She told him, hitting his arm softly.

 

 

 

The good thing about prams, Violet decided, was the useful storage for things like bags of shopping. The bottom of the pram was occupied with bags of new clothes and toys, all for Maeve of course, and a couple were hooked on the handle beside the purple baby bag Sherlock had packed. Maeve was sleeping, her soft snores almost inaudible in the heavy bustle of London but Violet had trained her ears to listen for it, having kids, especially troublesome ones like Sherlock, had taught her a keen sense of hearing. Her hands were balled up into fists beside her head and her feet had kicked away the small thin blanket that she’d placed over her.

A black car pulling up beside her pulled her from her thoughts.

She stopped and sighed.

The door opened and out climbed Mycroft, leading with his umbrella.

“Mummy,” he greeted, keeping his voice low and bowing his head because of the sun.

“What are you doing here?”

She asked placing one hand on her hip.

“I thought we could walk to the restaurant together.” He frowned.

“You have a job,” she reminded him with a raised eyebrow.

He rolled his eyes. “A fifteen minute difference in meeting times.”

“Come on then, best get her out of the sun before she gets too hot.”

Mycroft nodded and walked with his mother as she pushed the pram. He peered at the sleeping infant.

“She’s a darling, isn’t she?” Violet asked.

Mycroft raised an eyebrow. It would not do well to admit how fond he had become of the infant already, thirteen weeks and she was already his top priority, or one of them. “Yes.”

“How is work darling?”

“Manageable.”

“And Gregory?”

“He’s fine mummy.”

“And you?” She glanced at him.

“I am fine.” He told her, frowning at the pram. “She should be awake.”

“Yes.” Violet nodded.

“You’re not following her routine.” He inhaled sharply.

“A baby shouldn’t have a routine Mycroft,” she told him.

“He will not be happy.”

“Sherlock isn’t often happy.”

 

 

 

The restaurant was small and quiet. They were shown to a table at the far side with two chairs and enough room for the pram to sit beside, facing Violet, so that she could peer in and see the sleeping baby. Mycroft ordered with confidence and the waitress backed away from the table with a small nod and the assurance that their drinks would be out in a moment.

“Have you seen the kids recently?” Violet asked.

“No,” he answered. “They are staying with their mother, Gregory spent the day with them last weekend.”

“You work too hard.” She scolded.

Mycroft merely rolled his eyes and gestured into the pram, “may I?”

Violet nodded and Mycroft reached into the pram. He plucked out the sleeping infant, who jerked and immediately began rubbing at her still closed eyes. He pulled her close until her face was resting on his shoulder and body pressed against his chest. She whined.

“You should have woken her.” He told his mother, raising an eyebrow.

“At least she’s well rested.” Violet took a sip of her water.

Mycroft ran his hand over her head and the hair that was there.

The waitress announced her return with a soft cough. Mycroft looked up at her, she smiled and placed the drinks on the table. “Is this your daughter?”

“My niece.” He corrected.

“She’s cute,” The waitress tucked the round tray underneath her arm. “Your starters will be ready shortly.”

“Thank you.” Violet smiled. The waitress disappeared and she turned her attention onto her son and granddaughter. “You’re good with her Myc.”

“Mycroft is the name you gave me, if you could possibly struggle all the way to the end.”

Violet gave her son an affronted look. “There’s no need to be cheeky.”

“Cheeky?” he repeated sounding surprised and disgusted. He looked down at Maeve, her eyes were shut but she was not yet asleep again, only attempting to sleep. “Do you think I’m cheeky?”

Maeve growled in response and opened her eyes.

“Cheeky is not an adjective that should be used to describe a fully grown man.”

“Stop it.” Violet scolded playfully.

“I know.” He told Maeve as though she had said something, running his hand over her head again.

He kissed the top of her head.

Maeve craned her neck slightly to look up at him and gurgled.

The waitress returned with a smile, two small plates in her hands. She placed them on the table, Violet first, then Mycroft and looked up at him. “She’s too young for a high-chair right?”

“Yes.” Mycroft confirmed.

The waitress smiled in apology. “Did you need anything else?”

“No, we’re fine thank you.” Violet dismissed and she disappeared again. “Are you going to eat with her in your arms?”

Mycroft ignored his mother and picked up his fork with his free hand.

 

 

 

“Your father wants you to come away with us this summer.” Violet announced after dessert.

“Gregory and I?” He asked, sipping his latte.

“Sherlock, John and Maeve too.”

Mycroft nodded and placed the cup back into the saucer. He placed his now free hand on Maeve’s back. “I’ll see what I can do. The south of France?”

“Yes, we’ve been meaning to go for the last few years but other trips always popped up.”

“The villa would accommodate us all but Sherlock will never agree to it.”

“That’s why I need your help Myc.”

Mycroft sighed. “Use John.”

His mother looked confused.

He explained. “If you convince John, he’ll convince Sherlock.”

“Right.” Violet frowned. “How do I do that?”

 

 

 

John stepped into the flat after a particularly long and tiring shift at the surgery. He paused in the doorway and watched the cat stop mid-lick, stare at him, then go back to licking herself. He sighed and went into the kitchen, flicked the kettle on and found the cleanest looking mug on the draining board.

The flat was too quiet without Sherlock and Maeve.

Jade jumped onto the counter beside him and meowed loudly in his face.

“Yes, hello,” he said. She rubbed against him. “Are you lonely?”

She meowed again and John rubbed the top of her head with two fingers. She began purring.

“John,” a voice called.

John turned towards the owner, Violet Holmes, and called back. “In here.”

A moment later the lady in question appeared in the doorway between the kitchen and longue, Maeve was awake and resting in her arms, looking up at her grandmother with wide eyes. A second later Mycroft appeared with hands full of bags. John opened his mouth but quickly closed it again.

Mycroft placed the bags beside the armchair and greeted. “John.”

“Have a nice lunch?” the blonde asked. The cat beside him meowed loudly in a bid to gain his attention and he offered her his hand. She rubbed against it. “Sherlock’s not home yet.”

“Do you want me to stay?” Violet asked.

John shook his head. “No, it’s fine. You can put her in her chair.”

Violet nodded and stepped back into the longue. She crouched and put strapped Maeve into her bouncy chair while the infant squirmed and struggled. She growled in warning and Violet rolled her eyes. “You are just like your father, you like to get your own way.”

Maeve growled again.

“Tea?” John asked.

“Not for me, thank you.” Violet said with a smile as she got back to her feet.

Mycroft smiled, “tea would be lovely.”

John nodded and found a clean cup.

Jade meowed again.

The blonde made the tea and brought it into the living room. Jade followed him, swishing her tail in the air as she walked behind him, eyes flicking over the two new people in the room. She stopped beside the bouncy chair and started licking herself again. John placed the tea on the table and sat on the sofa.

“My parents,” John started, clearing his throat, “would like to meet you, if it’s not too much trouble, they’re going to come and spend the weekend. They want to see where we live, spend some time with Maeve and meet you, they’re very interested in you after meeting Sherlock.”

“Should we be worried?” Violet asked with an amused smile.

“I think they want to see if Sherlock’s the normal one.” He admitted with a smile.

 

 

 

Sherlock found Maeve in her bouncy chair, the cat was spread out on the floor beside her fast asleep and John on the sofa, reading. He looked up at Sherlock and smiled.

“She’s awake.” The consulting detective frowned and crouched beside the chair.

“Yes,” John said slowly.

“Why is she awake?”

“She’s not tired.”

Sherlock closed his eyes and inhaled sharply. “She overslept with mummy.”

“Oh no, someone didn’t follow her routine.” John drawled sarcastically.

“She’ll be a nightmare tonight.” Sherlock muttered.

“Yes, well, she’ll be your nightmare.” John closed his book and rose to his feet.

Sherlock glared at his daughter. “I hate you.”

Maeve flashed him a toothy grin and he sighed, conceding and ran a finger down her face.

“Don’t be mean, it’s you mothers fault, she’s just a baby.” John told him.

“I’m fully aware,” Sherlock shot the blonde a fake smile.

John rolled his eyes and Sherlock turned back to Maeve, he unstrapped her and picked her up. Jade meowed and climbed to her feet, she rubbed her head against the infant’s feet. Sherlock frowned and pulled his daughter up higher to rest against his chest, the cat sat down and looked up at him and Maeve. She licked her paw for a moment and then meowed at the consulting detective.

“You are a nuisance.” He told the cat. John snorted.

“I’m going to kill Mummy.” Sherlock said to Maeve, his tone soft.

“No you’re not.” John said simply.

Sherlock smiled, “no but revenge John, revenge.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next Chapter: Johns parents come to stay in London for the weekend.


	46. Ninety-Six Days Old

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John's parents are down for the weekend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys, sorry that it's taken me so long to update. This chapter is long and there are so many characters in some scenes so yeah, it took me ages. Sorry again. I'll try to make my updates more regular.  
> Good news is that I've planned out the next fifteen or so chapters, which also took forever because I'm having to do all sorts of research into babies, the important milestones e.c.t.  
> And even better news.  
> A_Woman_of_Stone left me a beautiful comment (thank you for all the comments, all of them are amazing and mean so much to me) and suggested a fic about Moriarty and it got me thinking, so yeah, I'm going to do a oneshot about the time that Maeve and Moriarty spent together. Look out for it, it will be called 'Ideal Enemy' and I'll be updating 'Ideal Uncle' in the next week.  
> Thank you. I love you all.  
> And btw, I post so much about this fic on my twitter account so follow me please. The name is @tiffanilocked  
> I'm also on instagram: tiffanilocked95  
> and tumblr: tiffanilocked.

The flat was clean, or clean according to Sherlock’s standards. The consulting detective had spent an hour tidying, not cleaning, because John knew the distinction between the two, moving things about in the hopes that the living room would pass for tidy. So, of course, John had spent the entire morning cleaning the flat in preparation for his parent’s visit. And now, John was fresh from the shower, dressed in pair of clean jeans and a white shirt with his brown ‘date night’ shoes and a dark blue cardigan. His hair was almost dry and brushed neatly to the left.

Sherlock was sat in the middle of the floor, bum on his feet and hands on his thighs. His eyes scanning over the arch he had created on the floor (freshly cleaned) with sheets of paper from a case file. He wore a pale grey, almost white shirt, the top two buttons undone, with a pair of dark blue slacks. His jacket was still in the bedroom and replaced with his blue dressing gown, undone and hanging loosely on his slim shoulders.

“Are you coming with me?” John asked as he re-entered the living room, picking up his wallet and keys. “I know Lestrade gave you a case earlier, and its fine if you don’t want to, we can just meet you back here.”

Sherlock was either ignoring him or hadn’t heard him at all.

John’s money was on the former.

“Sherlock.” He prompted, keeping his tone level.

Maeve jerked at the sound of his voice and lifted her head to look up at him.

“Yes, hello you.” John said to her, not wanting her to feel left out.

She was lain on her stomach on her tummy time mat in front of the arch Sherlock had created, wearing nothing but a nappy with a legless and sleeveless baby grow over the top. Her blue eyes were wide and curious, stuck on him until she dropped her gaze back down to the colourful mat and gently lowered her head, face turned to the side to look at Sherlock. Her hair was longer now, not by much, and curling at the ends.

“Sherlock.” John repeated, louder this time.

Sherlock jolted, pulled away from his thoughts and hummed. “What?”

“Are you coming with me?”

“Where?” Sherlock frowned in confusion and looked up from his case file.

“To the train station…to pick up my parents.” John said slowly.

Sherlock’s eyes focused on his daughter. He didn’t smile. He did push the soft bee toy closer to her. “No.”

“Ok, well I’ll be about forty minutes.” John scratched the back of his neck.

Sherlock hummed again.

“Did you want me to take her? Get some fresh air?”

“No,” Sherlock shook his heads. “We’ll be fine.”

“Ok, if you’re sure.”

“I am.” Sherlock

“Right, see you in a minute.” John nodded and left the flat.

Maeve whined at his sudden disappearance.

“Shhh.” Sherlock hushed gently. He offered his hand to her over the case file and she immediately grasped his middle finger in her fist. She gurgled. “Only twenty minutes left.”

 

* * *

 

“So, how have things been?” John’s father asked when the cab pulled away from the curb.

“Good, it’s been a slow week.” He answered. “I’ve had shifts at the clinic.”

“And Sherlock? How is he?”

“He’s good, he had a case earlier in the week but the whole thing was…below a four, I think is the words he used.” John smiled.

Silvia returned the smile. “And how’s Maeve?”

“She’s good. Sherlock’s mother, Violet, had her on Wednesday and well, she didn’t stick to Sherlock’s routine. Little terror refused to go to bed.”

“And what are they doing now?”

“Sherlock’s working a case at the moment. He was going over the file when I left, he’s probably coming up with a plan to catch the guy or something, now.”

“Well that sounds interesting.” Harold said.

“Yes, as long as he doesn’t get himself into trouble.”

 

* * *

 

Sherlock scooped Maeve up off the floor when her twenty minutes had finished and placed her on his hip, she immediately grasped his dressing gown to steady herself as she supported her own neck.

“Papa will be back soon.” He told her. Maeve looked up at him, her eyes full of wonder and confusion. He smiled. “You have no idea what I’m talking about do you?”

Maeve grinned at him.

“Yes, come on, daddy has a case.”

He bent down and picked up the case files with his free hand. He threw them onto the desk, not caring that some fell onto the floor.

“Let’s get you dressed.”

 

* * *

 

“This is it,” John said as he gestured up at the building. His parents gazed at it for a moment. He explained. “Our landlady Mrs Hudson lives downstairs and runs the café.”

“And you live…” his mother trailed off.

“We live in the upstairs flat, the first floor is…well, come inside and I’ll show you.”

John opened the front door and took them upstairs. He paused at the top at the sight of Sherlock stood at the window, back to them, no longer wearing his dressing gown. And Greg, sat on the sofa, hands clasped together on his knees, he looked up at them and managed a small smile.

“Greg.” John frowned. “Case?”

Greg nodded and pursed his lips. He stood up at the sight of John’s parents behind him, hovering in the doorway. John stepped inside and stood towards the side of the sofa, his parents came in and looked over the flat. Greg cleared his throat and extended his hand. “You must be John’s parents. I’m Greg.”

“He works for Scotland Yard.” John explained. “He lets Sherlock help on cases.”

“I’m also dating his brother.” Greg added with a small smile. He shook Harold and Silvia’s hand.

“It’s nice to meet you.” Silvia said.

“So, this is the flat? It’s…” Harold started

“Homely.” Silvia finished

“This is the living room, the kitchens through there” he gestured, “and the hallway to the bathroom and our bedroom. The nursery and guest room are upstairs.”

“Ignore him,” Greg said, gesturing towards the consulting detective stood at the window, all but oblivious to their presence in the room. “He’s thinking about something.”

“Yeah he does that, he’s rude.” John nodded.

“And you don’t mind us staying?” Silvia asked, uncertain.

“It’s fine Mum, we have a spare room.” The blonde said simply.

There was a loud meow followed by the appearance of Jade from the kitchen, tail high in the air as she walked with grace, eyes flicking over the new people in the room. She bypassed them all and jumped onto the desk beside Sherlock, using the chair for leverage she edged closer to the consulting detective and meowed again.

“Yeah, that’s our cat, Jade. Siger, Sherlock’s father brought her for Maeve.”

Harold and Silvia exchanged a look.

Greg looked wary.

John smirked. “You ok, Greg?”

“She attacked me when I came in.”

“What did you do?” John sighed and placed a hand on his hip.

“She was laying in the doorway, I didn’t see her.”

“You trod on her.” John snorted. “Oh god, yeah, she’ll hold a grudge.”

Jade meowed again and Sherlock snapped out of his thought. “What?”

He turned towards the cat.

Jade gazed up at him.

“Stupid animal.” He muttered under his breath and turned to face the room. Maeve was cradled in one arm, his other hand resting on her stomach, she held onto it with both fists.

His eyes widened at the sight of John and his parents. “Oh,” his mouth formed an ‘O’.

“Hello,” John smiled. He loved these moments. The ones where Sherlock was caught off guard and confused, his eyes softened and his face didn’t catch up with his mind for a brief moment, he looked like a child with his hand in the biscuit tin, caught out by a parent.

“Silvia, Harold.” He bowed his head in greeting.

“Interesting case?” Harold asked.

“Could be.” He pursed his lips.

Jade craned her neck and rubbed her face against Maeve’s feet.

“Have you got anything?” Greg asked.

The consulting detective hummed. “A theory.”

“Care to share?” Sherlock pursed his lips in an obvious avoidance tactic and Greg sighed. “Do you have anything to tell me?”

“Not yet, homeless network are working on a possible location.” The consulting detective explained, he stepped away from the window and sat down on the sofa in a fluid motion. He gently pried his hand away from Maeve who whined at the loss and looked up at him with a pout, well, what looked like a pout. He smiled down at her and tapped her lip softly with one of his fingers. Her eyes widened, shocked by the action. “Sorry,” he apologised, voice low.

Maeve opened her mouth.

“Look,” he moved Maeve so that she was sitting up and able to face the room, supported by him, “I told you papa would be back, there he is.”

Maeve gurgled in response. Her blue eyes flicked to John.

“I’ve made dinner reservations.” Sherlock announced.

“You didn’t have to go to any trouble.” Silvia told him. They’d settled in the armchairs, Harold in Sherlock’s armchair and Silvia in John's. Greg was now leaning against the desk, eyes glancing over his shoulder at the cat that was still behind him.

“We’re doing dinner on Sunday right?” Greg asked.

“Yes.” John nodded and then turned to his parents. “Sherlock’s parents insisted.”

“I’ll be bringing the kids this week too.”

“John didn’t mention you had kids.” Silvia said, glancing at the detective inspector.

“Yes, three. Three beautiful kids.” He smiled.

“How old are they?”

“Fifteen, fourteen and seven.”

“That’s lovely,” Silvia gushed.

John perched on the arm of the sofa and Sherlock lifted Maeve up and towards him. John took her and brought her close to his chest, she squirmed in excitement before settling against him.

“Well,” Greg cleared his throat. “Keep me updated.”

Sherlock flashed fake smile.

“No,” Greg snapped, “I mean it, no running off on your own, you call me the moment you hear something.”

“Yes, yes.” Sherlock waved his hand in the air flippantly.

“Have a lovely dinner and a nice stay,” he said to John’s parents and left, with one last look at the cat shooting daggers at him.

“He seemed nice.” Silvia said after a moment.

“Yeah, he’s one of the good ones.” John nodded.

“Do you want me to show you to your room?” John asked. “You can get settled in before dinner.”

Harold nodded.

 

* * *

 

When Harold came back downstairs he went into the kitchen and found tea waiting on the table. The cat was on a counter, curled up in a ball, she opened one eye but quickly closed it again. The flat was empty. No sign of Sherlock, John or Maeve. He sat down at the table and took the cup, a plain white mug that was obviously meant for him, the other was delicate and flowery.

“What do you think you’re doing?” He heard from down the hallway.

It was John’s voice and it sounded as though he was struggling to contain his laughter.

“Experiment.” Came the reply from Sherlock.

“You’ll break your bloody neck.”

“Language John.” The consulting detective scolded.

Harold frowned and listened closer.

“She’s three months old, she’s not going to repeat it.” John replied.

“Her mind is like a sponge, constantly absorbing information.”

“She can’t speak.”

“Yet!”

There was a silence followed by a crash and the sound of something hitting the floor.

John’s laughter, mirthful full-belly laughter, filled the hallway.

“Ouch.” Sherlock said, followed by a loud groan.

“You shouldn’t do things like that,” John managed between laughing. “She might be copy you.”

“Shut up John.”

Harold listened as his son continued to laugh and crossed his arms over his chest. He hadn’t heard that sound, John’s uncontrollable laughter, since before John had been deployed, when he was a boy.

It was nice to hear his son happy again.

 

* * *

 

“What do you think you’re doing?” John asked, struggling to contain his laughter.

The consulting detective was currently stood on top of the changing station, one foot on the window ledge, attempting to for some unknown reason, test the window.

“Experiment.” The consulting detective replied.

“You’ll break your bloody neck.” John said from his position on the bed. He was sat with his back against the headboard, arms resting behind his head and Maeve using him as a support cushion to sit up. Her eyes on Sherlock.

“Language John.” Sherlock scolded, whipping his head round to glare at the shorter man.

John rolled his eyes and replied. “She’s three month old, she’s not going to repeat it.”

“Her mind is like a sponge, constantly absorbing information.” He said as though it were the most obvious thing, he turned back to the window and jiggled it.

“She can’t speak.”

Maeve frowned. John offered her one of his hands and she accepted, holding two of his fingers in her small fists. Her face softened and she smiled, looking back up at Sherlock, not releasing her grip on his hand.

“Yet!” Sherlock snapped.

There was a moment when Sherlock decided to test the window again, rattling it in its frame. He took his foot off of the changing station and attempted to put it on the window ledge, using the top of the window as a grip. He slipped and miraculously missed the changing station, landing on the floor with a dull hard thud.

John couldn’t hold back his laughter. Maeve looked horrified.

“Ouch.” Sherlock said from the ground, stretching out from the ball shape he’d landed in with a loud groan. He looked up at the ceiling in failure.

“You shouldn’t do things like that,” John managed between laughing. “She might copy you.”

“Shut up John.”

John started laughing again.

Maeve seemed confused, torn between upset and amusement. She settled on the latter. She looked up at John and decided to join in with his laughter, her delighted giggle was beautiful.

“I hate you both.” Sherlock said, climbing to his knees at the side of the bed. He looked up at his partner and daughter between his lashes.

“You berk.” John said.

“Language John.” Sherlock sighed, giving up.

 

* * *

 

“Dad,” John said with a smile as he stepped into the kitchen with Maeve seated in his arms.

“Everything ok?” Harold asked with a smile.

“Yes, Sherlock was just testing something…he wanted to see if Maeve would be able to climb out of the window when she’s able to move around.” John explained, he sounded bored, like he was always explaining.

“And he fell.”

“Yes, he fell.” He looked down, “would you like to hold her, I’ve got to warm up a bottle.”

Harold nodded and accepted his granddaughter. She squirmed.

“Where’s Sherlock?” He asked.

John looked over his shoulder as he prepared the bottle. “Nursing his bruised pride.”

Harold snorted.

 

* * *

 

“Why is it always me?” Sherlock asked.

John smirked up at him. “She loves you.”

Sherlock practically growled in response and looked down at the trail of baby sick on his shirt. He closed his eyes and sighed, throwing his head back dramatically. “It’s always me.”

“Yes, because you’re her father.”

John was continuing in burping her, rubbing her back with a protective muslin over his clothes. She looked happier now that she’d been sick. “Poor baby,” John cooed.

“Poor baby,” Sherlock mimicked.

“Don’t take out your frustrations on her.”

“These are expensive shirts.”

“I know, so wipe it and put it in the wash.”

Sherlock sent him once last glare before doing just that, disappearing down the hallway.

“Aww, he’s adorable isn’t he?” Silvia asked.

“Yeah,” John agreed with a smile, he looked down at the baby lent against his shoulder. “Your daddy is adorable, ridiculous but adorable.”

Maeve looked up at him and yawned.

“Yes, you’re tired I know, you can go to sleep in a minute.” He kissed the top of her head. He looked into the kitchen and called, “Sherlock, she’s tired.”

“Put her down for a sleep then, John.” Came the reply. The ‘obvious’ was silent.

“Well, that told us didn’t it.” John said to Maeve. She hit his chest with her fist. “Come on then.”

 

* * *

 

Sherlock was waiting for them on the street. He stood in a dark blue suit, with a clean white shirt with both of his hands on the pram. Maeve was inside, dressed in a pale pink dress and a blanket over her body. She was fast asleep, both hands beside her face, palms facing up. Her lips were parted. He was watching the pram.

“She alright?” John asked as he came out of the flat and stepped aside to allow his parents to pass.

Sherlock gave a quick nod.

Silvia and Harold came to stand beside him and John shut the door, pulling it by the knocker, he locked it and gestured down the street.

“It’s just around the corner,” Sherlock assured them.

Silvia walked in line with Sherlock. Harold and John a pace behind them.

“How is your case going?” she asked him.

Sherlock was surprised by her sudden interest. “I have three possible locations.”

“How?”

“My homeless network…” he trailed off at the confused look on her face. “I pay the city’s homeless to help me find people that have committed murders or places where crimes are going to be committed.”

“You pay the homeless to help you?” She asked.

Sherlock nodded. “Yes, I give them money or whatever they need. There are a couple that accept clothes and food as payment. Others accept food or veterinary care for their dogs.”

“That’s…quite genius. Nobody notices the homeless.”

Sherlock was taken back. “Precisely. I give them burner phones and they contact me or I find them in their usual haunts, it’s very discreet.”

“And when you’ve got the location?”

“Lestrade and I will wait at the scene.”

“And that’s what you do?” She asked.

He tilted his head slightly as they walked. “It’s not always that easy, there are normally various leads to follow and people to interview, I gathered all I could from the notes and compiled them into what I know about the killer, it was easy to track down possible locations on his previous crimes and victimology. The other possible locations I will make impossible to use, he will only be able to use the location that we will be waiting at and we will stop him before he hurts another person.”

Silvia was silent for a moment.

Sherlock looked down at the pram, worried that it was something he had said.

“That’s, you make it sound easy.” Silvia said.

“Well…” Sherlock managed, unsure. John was always telling him about modesty.

John chipped in from behind them, “he is a genius mum.”

Silvia nodded. “Yes, I suppose.”

“This is the place.” John gestured to the restaurant that they had reached.

John opened the door and allowed Sherlock to manoeuvre his way inside first, he managed with little difficulty up the one step and through the doorway with the pram.

“The usual table Mr Holmes.” Billy gestured to the reserved table at the front of the restaurant.

“Not this time Billy, I reserved a larger table.”

The waiter glanced at the book and then back up at Sherlock. “Right you are, this is your table.”

He showed them to a table further in the restaurant, closer to the back, a square booth with an open side, the tables moved away to allow room for the pram. John slid in, his mother and father after. And Sherlock took the end of the booth, beside John, opposite Harold. The pram close to the table and facing him so that he could watch her.

“Do you come here often?” Harold asked, eyes flicking over the restaurant.

“Yes, Sherlock knows the owner.” John explained with a smile.

Angelo appeared, stopping to peak into the pram at the sleeping baby before looking up at them. He greeted. “Sherlock, John.”

“Angelo.” Sherlock nodded.

“These are my parents.” John introduced.

“It’s my pleasure,” Angelo said, bowing his head. He gestured to Sherlock. “This man got me off a murder charge. Cleared my name.”

“I cleared it a bit.” Sherlock corrected.

“Anything you want.” Angelo continued. “I’ll get you some water, do you want some drinks?”

“Yes, I’ll have a lemonade” Silvia answered.

“A pint, anything you have.” Harold said.

“Pepsi.” John answered.

“Just water.” Sherlock waved his hand dismissively.

“I’ll come back when you’re ready to order.” Angelo said with a friendly smile. He ducked away.

“You proved him innocent of murder.” Silvia said in disbelief.

“Yes,” Sherlock answered, “Angelo was housebreaking at the time of the murder.”

“What do you fancy?” John asked quickly as his mum scanned the menu.

 

* * *

 

The meal was nice.

“Are you ok?” John asked as they stepped back onto the street.

Sherlock looked from his phone. He nodded.

“Got your location?”

Sherlock nodded and his eyes flicked towards the end of the street.

“Go, text Lestrade and go.” John instructed.

Sherlock looked both surprised and hopeful. “You sure?”

“Yes, go you git.”

“Thank you.” Sherlock said, he kissed John quickly and then did the same to Maeve, gently kissing her forehead as she slept.

“I’ll wake her up and feed her when we get back.”

Sherlock nodded and gestured for the cab. It stopped and he climbed inside. He smiled through the window.

“He gone off on his case?” Silvia asked as she and Harold came out of the restaurant.

“Yeah, you’ll have to do with us.” He smiled and led his parents back towards Baker Street.

 

* * *

  

Silvia gushed over John and Maeve the moment they were home. She went to make tea but was intercepted by Mrs Hudson who insisted on making it himself after introductions were made. They sat in the longue, John in his armchair, and his parents on the sofa with the news on in the background.

Maeve was half-asleep in John’s lap, her head lolled against his shoulder.

“Come on darling, time to wake up.” He told her.

Her face scrunched up but she didn’t wake. She was fighting it.

“Maeve.” He said, this time a little firmer.

Her face scrunched up further, her nose wrinkling and mouth pulling into a small thin line, her cupid bow pulling up, moist with salvia. She groaned in her sleep, a high tired sound.

“Aww, she’s just precious John.” Silvia cooed. “How do you get anything done?”

John huffed a laugh. “It’s a challenge.”

They sat like that for an hour and a half. His mother told him about the neighbours and old family friends. Harold chipped in with a fishing story and John woke and fed Maeve. She lolled about in his arms for a bit, tired but unwilling to go back to sleep after she’d been woken. He entertained her with her favourite bee toy and read her a book.

It was just before bed time that he got the phone call.

The ringtone was loud in the quiet flat and Maeve jerked in surprise, almost asleep. She immediately began crying. John cursed and shifted her around so that she was facing him, her head on his shoulder, pressed against his neck and body against his chest. “Shhh, it’s alright darling.” He attempted to hush her.

“Is she ok?” Harold asked, on alert.

“Fine, it just scared her.” John said with a small smile. He picked up his phone with his free hand, the one he wanted to use to rub down her back and calm her.

“Yes, hello.” He managed in greeting.

“John” Lestrade said.

“What’s he done now?” John asked.

“No, he hasn’t done anything. It’s just, ok, we’re at the hospital…”

“What?” Maeve was still crying against his neck.

“…he’s fine, we’re all fine. He just took a tumble, banged his head, and well, he’s a bit banged up, only bruising mind you.”

“Right, is he feeling sorry for himself?” John sighed.

“No, he’s well, he’s his usual charming self.”

“Do you need me to come get him?”

“Yeah, I can’t drive him home. I hit my head.

“You too?”

“Yeah, I tripped over his leg.” Lestrade sounded embarrassed.

John snorted and put the phone down.

His parents were watching him carefully. 

“Sherlock hit his head, he’s at the hospital. I’ve got to go and pick him up.”

“Is he ok?”

“Yeah.” John gave a small nod and rose to his feet. He rocked his body from side to side and hushed Maeve gently, his lips pressed against her hair.

“Shall we come with you?”

John sighed.

 

* * *

 

 

The hospital was crowded. John went straight to the girl at reception, allowed to pass through the usual Friday night crowd because of the baby in his arms, she pointed him in the right direction and he walked down the hallway. Maeve was cradled in one arm, almost asleep, wearing a pink bunny outfit to protect her against the cold. She had been asleep in the cab but the lights and sounds of the hospital had woken her, and now she was desperately trying to return to sleep. In John’s other hand he carried the car seat.

Silvia and Harold followed him, almost unable to keep up with his marching through the hospital.

“I’m going to kill you daddy,” he told her.

“Don’t be so rude John.” His mother scolded.

“Let me take that for you,” Harold insisted, gesturing towards the car seat.

“It’s fine Dad.” The blonde said quickly.

He knew he’d reached the right room when he saw Sally escorting a crying nurse out of the room.

“Being his usual charming self is he?” He asked as he passed Sally.

She managed a nod and smile.

Inside the room Sherlock was sat up in bed. His shirt was open revealing bruises across his side and there was a bloody plaster on his forehead. His eyes focused on John and he immediately looked down, ashamed. There were smudged dust marks on his clothes.

“Are you ok?” John asked, he placed the car seat on the floor at the end of the bed and rushed to his partner’s side. His newly free hand went to rest beneath Maeve.

“Fine, mild concussion.” He said, looking up slowly. “Some bruising.”

“And you managed to bring Greg down with you, what happened?”

Sherlock looked up at John with the expression of a wounded puppy. “I was pushed over.”

John nodded.

Sherlock sighed and shifted his gaze to rest on Maeve. “The suspect didn’t agree with my attempt to apprehend him, he pushed me and I tripped over a brick.”

“He pushed you?” John frowned.

“Well he tried to stab me, I managed to dodge that but then -”

“He pushed you.” John finished with a small smile. He sighed and caressed Sherlock’s hair, pushing it away from his forehead and the plaster that sat there. “Small mercies.”

Sherlock closed his eyes and leaned into the touch.

“How long as she been asleep?” He asked, keeping his eyes closed.

“She fell asleep in the cab but woke up the moment we arrived.”

Sherlock hummed thoughtfully.

John added, “She’s very tired.”

Greg rapped his knuckles on the door.

John looked up at the battered detective inspector. He had a square piece of bandage on the back of his head, stuck to it with medical tape and a plaster on his chin. His black coat and trousers were dusty.

“Greg, you alright mate?” John asked.

“Fine.” He grunted, the plaster pulling at his skin. “Just a bit bruised.”

“What happened?” Silvia asked. Harold had his arm around her shoulder.

“I fell over his legs when he was trying to get back up.” Greg admitted. “Which is how he hit his head.”

“What? How?” John asked, eyes narrowing in confusion.

“I fell backwards, pushed him back down, and then we bumped heads.”

“You idiots.” John chastised lightly.

Greg caressed his chin.

“As long as you’re both ok.” Harold said.

“Yeah, fine. Landed on some rubble though.”

“And I’m here to discharge you both.” John sighed.

“Yeah, sorry about that.” Greg looked at the ground like a guilty schoolboy.

Sherlock was uncharacteristically quiet. He stared at Maeve as she slept.

John realised that he probably just wanted to hold her and he placed the almost asleep infant in his arms, the consulting detective brought her close and craned his neck to rest his head against hers. He placed a kiss on her nose and watched as her eyes fluttered open, looked up and recognised him. She yawned and closed her eyes, relaxing in his arms.

“Actually, I only called you to pick up Sherlock.”

Sherlock sighed. “You called him.”

“He’s my partner.” Greg said, tired and grumpy. “I had to call him.”

“No you didn’t,” Sherlock muttered, placing his lips against Maeve’s forehead.

“Agree to disagree.” A knowing voice said from the doorway. Greg turned to face Mycroft, stood tall with his arms over his chest, and smiled. He wore a black pinstripe suit and white shirt.

“Myc.” Greg greeted, tired and grumpy.

The elder Holmes’ eyes flicked over the occupants of the room, quickly over John, then his parents, he spent longer on Greg and then settled on Sherlock. “Mild concussions.”

“Guess.” Sherlock declared.

Mycroft looked insulted. “Obvious head injuries.”

“Obvious.” Sherlock repeated.

“You landed on your back,” Mycroft deduced, “Gregory tripped over your legs, backwards, hit the back of his head and pushed you back down, you bumped heads and Gregory hit his chin on the wall when he untangled himself from you.”

“Guess.” Sherlock repeated. He kept his face angled towards Maeve but flicked his eyes up to look at his older brother critically for a moment before moving back to his daughter.

Mycroft rolled his eyes and focused his attention on John’s parents. He flashed a small fake smile. “Mycroft Holmes.”

“Sherlock’s older brother,” John added.

Silvia nodded and Harold said, “It’s lovely to meet you.”

Mycroft smiled and turned to Sherlock. “Are you ok?”

Sherlock frowned and looked up at his brother, surprised by the sudden expression of concern. “Fine.”

“Let’s get you all home then,” Anthea spoke up from the doorway, not bothering to look up from her phone.

 

* * *

 

 

John steered Sherlock down the hallway into the bedroom with one hand on his shoulder and the other cradling Maeve as she slept. He commanded, “Bed.”

Sherlock huffed but went willingly.

“Do you need anything John?” Harold called after him.

John looked over his shoulder, “no, we’re fine. You can go to bed.”

There was the sound of hushed conversation and then footsteps on the stairs.

“Are you ok?” John asked, closing the door.

Sherlock hummed. “Are you going to put her down?”

John raised an eyebrow at the obvious deflection. “Yes, after you tell me if you’re ok.”

“I wounded my pride John,” Sherlock admitted with a sigh of defeat.

“Yes, well, you did trip over a brick.”

“I was pushed.” Sherlock frowned.

John shook his head mirthfully and walked around the bed, he carefully placed Maeve in the Moses Basket and waited to see if she was going to wake up before moving. She sighed and relaxed, he nodded and turned back to the consulting detective. “Take your clothes off.”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

“Not for that,” John sighed. “I want to check your back.”

“Yes, mother.” Sherlock said with all the petulance of a child.

John frowned. “Perhaps don’t call me that.”

Sherlock had the audacity to smile.

John looked disgusted and jested, “pervert.”

  

* * *

 

 

Sherlock stumbled out of bed and into the kitchen. Harold and Silvia were sat around the table eating breakfast, already dressed, and looked up as he entered the room. John stepped into the kitchen holding Maeve, awake and dressed in a pale yellow dress with a matching sun hat and small white shoes.

“Good morning,” John smirked at the sight of an overly tired Sherlock. His hair was messy from sleep and his eyes still adjusting to the light, he blinked and rubbed his eyes.

“Morning.” He mumbled and sat in one of the two unoccupied chairs.

John took the seat opposite him, at the end of the table and sat Maeve on his lap, facing Sherlock.

“Did you sleep well?” Silvia asked him.

Sherlock yawned and nodded. “Like a baby.”

“Unlike this little terror.” John said raising an eyebrow and looked down at the totally oblivious baby on his lap, she was too occupied in the small selection of toys on the table.

Sherlock frowned. “I didn’t hear her.”

“You were out like a light.” John shrugged, “you were obviously tired.”

“I always hear her.” Sherlock said more to himself than anything.

“She was fussy, she didn’t cry.” John told him.

His frown deepened.

“She only woke up a couple of times.”

“What are your plans for the day?” Sherlock asked in a bored tone.

“We’re going to go sightseeing.” John announced in a soft tone.

Sherlock looked horrified by the idea.

“You don’t have to come.” John added.

“Good.” Sherlock declared and picked up a croissant from the plate in the middle of the table. He bit into it.

“You could have used a plate.” John sighed.

Sherlock stuck his tongue out, there were crumbs in his mouth and John rolled his eyes.

“Child.” John declared. “What are you going to do today?”

Sherlock shrugged. “I have some experiments that require my attention.”

“Of course you do. Greg wants to come over and get your statement.”

Sherlock’s face scrunched up and Maeve giggled in delight at the sight.

“Yes, that’s enough from you.” Sherlock said around his mouthful.

“Ignore Daddy, you can laugh at him if you want.” John told her, lifting her up so that she was sat on one of his arms and the other was across her chest, keeping her in an upright position.

“Aww, she’s adorable.” Silvia cooed.

Maeve let out a delighted shriek.

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

  

* * *

 

 

“So, where to first?” Harold asked as they settled in the cab.

“The tower of London.” John told the cabbie.

Silvia looked both happy and shocked. “The tower of London?”

“Yes,” John nodded. “You wanted to see London, I’m going to show you.”

  

* * *

 

 

The tower of London was crowded despite the early hour. They queued for the crown jewels and John sat out the other parts of the building, allowing his family to go alone while he sat on a bench with Maeve, her head was in his neck and her body stretched against his chest, held firmly. She was awake but content to sit, her eyes occasionally flicking over the grass and stone walls, the ravens.

After forty-five minutes his parents reappeared.

“John, are you ok?” His mother asked.

“Sorry that took so long.” His father added with a lopsided smile.

“Its fine,” he assured them, standing up and stretching his legs. “I’ve seen it all before anyway.”

“You didn’t mind waiting outside?”

John shook his head. “Its fine, I got to spend time with my favourite girl.”

  

* * *

 

They didn’t have to queue at the London Eye. Mycroft had made them an advanced private booking and they were shown to the front of the queue where Harry was waiting, looking awkwardly at her feet.

“Harry,” Silvia rushed up and hugged her daughter. Harold embraced her after, the moment his wife let her go and then they stood back at arm’s length.

“Hey,” she said. “John said that you were doing all the sights, I thought I’d tag along.”

“The more the merrier,” John said as the man at the front of the queue took the pram away and her settled Maeve into a more comfortable position against his chest with one arm, the other securing the bag on his other shoulder.

“Is Sherlock busy?” She asked, making an effort.

“He’s meeting with our friend to give him a statement, then he’s got some experiments to do,” John smiled.

Harry nodded towards Maeve, “and she’s ok?”

“Yeah, just peachy.” He struggled to keep a grip on her while her eyes wandered over all the new things, the buildings, the people, everything. He shifted her down slightly and gave him her hand, something for her to focus on, and she did just that, grasping two of his fingers in her fists and examining his hand as though it was the most interesting thing.

“She going to be alright for an hour,” the man asked as he returned from putting the pram away.

“Yes, she’s due a sleep anyway.” John answered.

The man nodded and gestured for them to climb into the now empty compartment. Silvia and Harry went first, then John and Maeve, his father stepped in last and after a moment they were sealed into the glass compartment. John sat down on the bench and pried his hand away from Maeve long enough to shrug the bag off of his shoulder and reposition her hat so it wasn’t falling of her head, then gave it back to her.

She growled.

“Yes, yes.” He hushed.

“So, you enjoying your stay?” Harry asked, settling against one of the railings.

“Yes,” Harold smiled.

“It’s lovely, we’ve met Sherlock’s brother and a lovely detective inspector.” Silvia added.

Harry nodded. “Have you got much plans for the rest of your stay?”

“Tomorrow we’re going to see Sherlock’s parents.” John answered.

“Meeting the parents.” Harry joked.

“Yes, well, couldn’t hide her away forever.” John smiled and looked down at Maeve.

Harry said nothing.

She was being too polite.

John watched her carefully, she fidgeted. “What?”

“Nothing.” She said quickly, too quickly.

“Spit it out. We’re going to be stuck in here for the next hour.”

Harry looked up and met his eyes. “Don’t you think this is all happening too fast?”

John snorted.

Harold looked wary. Silvia frowned, “you’re not getting younger darling.”

“But he’s raising another man’s child, they’ve only been together a couple of months.” Harry argued.

“We’ve been together for 11 weeks,” John added for the sake of correctness. “And I love them both.”

“But-” Harry started.

“No,” John interrupted, his voice steady but not loud enough to upset Maeve. “Think what you want but I love Sherlock and Maeve, and they are a package deal. I wouldn’t change a thing about what’s happened…well, maybe a couple of things but not them, never them.” He sighed. “The situation wasn’t perfect but what is? This is…this is ideal, this is a family. None of us are perfect but we love each other and that’s all that matters.”

Maeve whined loudly.

John looked down and amended. “Except you, you are perfect.

Harry was silent. She fiddled with her sleeve. “Fine.”

“Fine,” John repeated, something between an angry and amused smile settling on his lips. “What are you twelve?”

“You can talk,” Harry muttered. “Two months and you’re already saying the L word.”

“Two and a half,” John corrected.

Harry snorted.

John cleared his throat. “Look, I know you don’t like Sherlock. He’s a bit eccentric but you don’t have to like him, all you have to do it support me and my decision and be polite.”

Harry nodded.

“Thank you.” John stood up and rocked Maeve.

“Now, if you are done arguing, can we get back to our day out?” Silvia asked, raised eyebrow and hands on her hips.

“Yes mum,” both the Watson children said at the same time.

Maeve whined loudly.

“Now give her to Nanny,” Silvia instructed.

John did as he was told, he handed Maeve to his mother and watched her walk to the far end of the capsule and point out London to Maeve. He smiled to himself.

 

* * *

 

John strapped Maeve into her pram and placed a thin blanket over her body.

“She ok?” Harold asked, leaning over to get a good look at the sleeping baby.

“Fine,” John said with a smile.

“Where are we going now?” Harry asked, squinting in the sunlight.

“Where do you want to go?” John asked, straightening up and looking at his parents.

“The houses of parliament.” His mother suggested.

“We can walk,” John nodded.

They walked in silence.

 

* * *

 

John lifted Maeve out of the pram and placed her against his chest, she was limp in sleep and snoring softly, undisturbed by the change in position. Silvia picked up the hat and placed it back on her head.

“Shall we?” John asked, gesturing to the guide waiting for them.

Harold nodded and led Silvia with a hand on her lower back.

Harry and John walked side by side.

“How did your boyfriend swing this?” She asked in a hushed tone.

John shrugged. “He is a man of many talents.”

“As are you, apparently.”

John frowned. “That almost sounded like a compliment.”

Harry knocked his shoulder with hers. “I just mean, you are good at this dad thing.”

“Yes, well,” John blushed and looked down at the infant in his arms. “I’m a doctor, it’s easy.”

“No it’s not, but you make it look easy. That’s a talent.”

“Yes, well, I’m no Sherlock Holmes but I can look after a baby.”

Harry snorted. “You were always…paternal.”

“Yes, it’s not hard.” He agreed with a small nod.

“And she’s alright, yeah?”

“Yeah,” John frowned. “She fine, absolutely fine.”

Harry nodded and looked down, embarrassed.

John smiled.

 

* * *

 

Maeve sighed in her sleep but didn’t wake up, her face scrunched up against his neck and her hands balled into firsts in his shirt. John turned and looked back down the hallway that they’d just walked down.

His mother was busy asking questions while his father just listened to the tour guide.

Harry was behind them, obviously not listening but feigning interest.

The sound of voices echoed down the hallway and John looked up to see none other than Mycroft Holmes stood at the end with two other men dressed in suits and Anthea. The elder Holmes brother looked up and noticed John and Maeve. His eyes softened slightly, in a way that only someone that knew him well would recognise and he cleared his throat, “excuse me for a moment gentlemen.”

The two men he was with looked surprised but nodded and stepped into a room.

Mycroft walked leisurely down the hallway and stopped in front of the blonde. “John.”

“What are you doing here?” John asked, surprised.

Mycroft’s eyes flicked over the three Watsons stood with a tour guide and then back to John. He smiled.

“You can’t talk about it.” John guessed.

“Sight-seeing,” Mycroft said with an overly amused tone, obviously fake.

“Yeah,” John nodded and looked down at the sleeping infant. “She’s finding it all very thrilling.”

“She’s barely three months old,” the auburn haired man said in a tone that clearly said, you are an idiot. It was different to Sherlock’s, more polite and well, less obvious.

“I think the sights were a bit too much for her.”

“Is she ok?” Concern flashed across his usually indifferent face.

“Fine,” John nodded. “Just a lot to take in, new places and people.”

Mycroft didn’t look convinced.

“Sir.” Anthea called softly from the end of the hallway.

Mycroft didn’t turn.

“We’ll see you tomorrow.” John said with a fond smile.

The older man nodded and took a step back, “enjoy your sight-seeing.”

John nodded and turned, his parents had disappeared down the hallway. He sighed and rushed in the same direction.

 

* * *

 

They stopped for lunch in a small café.

John fed Maeve. She slowly suckled from the bottle while she blinked sleepily.

“Are you sure you don’t want me to feed her?” Silvia asked.

“Mum, I’m fine.” He answered giving her a pointed look. “She’s almost done anyway.”

Silvia nodded in defeat and gingerly picked up a piece of cucumber from her plate with a fork, she popped it into her mouth and chewed, eyes never leaving John and Maeve.

 

* * *

 

They returned to Baker Street in the late afternoon to find Sherlock stood over the kitchen table with a hose functioning as a blow torch in one hand and a human eye in the other.

He stopped at the sight of John in the doorway and frowned.

John paused and raised a questioning eyebrow.

“Experiment.” Sherlock offered in explanation.

“Right, well, I’ve got your daughter here.”

The consulting detective frowned, the obviously was implied, and turned off the blow torch. He placed it on the counter and put the eyeball in the waiting kidney dish. He took of the gloves and placed them on the counter and finally removed his safety goggles. He raise an eyebrow in a ‘what are you waiting for’ manner.

John sighed and walked around the table to hand Maeve over.

Sherlock took her from him and immediately placed her against his chest. She looked up at him for a moment before settling happily against him and sighing loudly in content.

“Hello,” he greeted, looking down at her.

“We’ve been all over.” John said, placing the baby bag on the floor.

Sherlock hummed in acknowledgement. “Did you have a good day with your Papa?”

Maeve remained silent.

Sherlock kissed the top of her head.

 

* * *

 

“She’s tired,” John announced with a yawn.

“She’s not the only one, apparently.” Sherlock said pointedly, placing a sleeping Maeve in her Moses basket. He took care to avoid the cat sleeping at the end. Jade opened one eye and then closed it again, ascertaining that there was no threat to herself or Maeve.

“She was good as gold,” John went on. “Fell asleep on the London Eye though.”

Sherlock pulled a blanket over her sleeping body and smiled down at her sleeping form.

“We saw Mycroft earlier.” He added.

Sherlock looked up and turned to face his partner. John was sprawled lazily across his side of the bed wearing only an old top and his boxers, the covers pulled haphazardly over his legs.

“Did you have a good day?” John asked, yawning again as he watched Sherlock undress.

The consulting detective climbed into bed and turned onto his side to face John.

“A valuable use of my time.” Sherlock answered.

“Yeah, I’m sure.” John raised an eyebrow.

Sherlock smiled and leaned forward and kissed him, slowly and thoroughly.

When they parted John smiled dopily and asked, “What was that for?”

“For being you,” Sherlock said simply.

 

* * *

 

“Get out of the cab.” Sherlock snapped at John as he fiddled with the car seat.

“Someone woke up on the wrong side of the bed.” John said to the confused infant.

He lifted Maeve and the car seat out of the cab and into Sherlock’s waiting arms. Then he climbed out of the cab. He gave Sherlock a pointed look, “what’s wrong with you?”

“Nothing.”

John frowned in disbelief.

“I just want to get this over with,” Sherlock said in a hushed tone.

John placed his hand on his arm and squeezed. “Everything will be fine.”

Harold and Silvia were stood a few steps away on the pavement, they were staring up at the houses in amazement and disbelief. Silvia cleared her throat and asked, “Your parents live here?”

“This is their London residence, yes.” Sherlock answered

John hit his arm. “Don’t tease.”

Sherlock smirked.

“This is it,” John gestured towards the house.

Sherlock stepped past them all and strode up the steps.

The door opened to reveal Mycroft, wearing a blue suit with a white shirt and light blue tie, no jacket, with his mobile in hand and his other resting on the door. He put his mobile into his pocket.

“Sherlock,” he greeted with a fake smile.

Sherlock said nothing, just lifted up the car seat and thrust it towards his brother.

Mycroft grunted in surprise and grabbed the car seat before he could drop it (not that Sherlock would let that happen) and watched his younger brother stride into the house.

“John, Mr and Mrs Watson.” He greeted turning back to the door and stepped backwards into the house.

“Mycroft.” John nodded.

The elder Holmes let everybody step into the house and nudged the door shut with his foot. It closed and he placed the car seat on the table beside a vase of flowers and unstrapped his niece. She looked up at him in curiosity and joy, she gave him a gummy smile the moment she was unstrapped and being lifted towards his body. She gurgled happily and dropped her head onto his shoulder.

“Hello my darling,” he greeted her.

Maeve sighed.

“The children are eager to see you.” He told her.

Maeve lifted her head as if she were intrigued by what he had to say.

“Mikey.” His mother called.

Mycroft sighed and said to Maeve, “I will never tolerate you calling me that.”

Maeve frowned and dropped her head back onto his shoulder. He ran a hand down her back and kissed her forehead, his lips lingering for a few seconds before he pulled back and straightened up. He walked into the living room, where seven-year-old Chloe Lestrade had wrapped her arms around Sherlock’s waist and the consulting detective had frozen, horrified.

“Yes,” he patted the small girl’s head with an awkward smile and cleared his throat. His said with an unconvincing tone, “It’s good to see you, too.”

“Let him go Chloe,” Greg sighed, leaning forward in his chair.

“Yes, do.” Sherlock added.

Chloe reluctantly let go of him and skipped back over to her father, she sat on his lap.

Sherlock with his new found freedom scanned the room and gracefully sat down in one of the armchairs.

“Your house is beautiful,” Silvia said to Violet.

Violet smiled and they sat together on the sofa, Harold and Siger took the opposite one, already talking about golf or some such sport. John stood beside Sherlock’s chair, hands behind his back.

“Are you going to bring her in or linger in the doorway?” Violet asked, looking up from her new friend to her son. The ‘come in and stop standing around uselessly’ was silent.

“I’m not entirely sure,” Mycroft answered.

He moved further into the room and settled in the empty chair beside Greg. Chloe peered over at the infant against his chest and Maeve lifted her head to look back at her, she flashed a gummy smile.

Chloe smiled at her, “hello.”

Maeve gurgled in response and turned to look at Mycroft. He nodded and she looked back at Chloe.

“She’s a lot bigger now.” Chloe said.

Mycroft hummed thoughtfully, “yes, bigger and stronger.”

“Can I hold her?” Chloe asked, looking at Sherlock for permission.

The consulting detective waved his hand in the air and plucked his mobile phone out of his pocket.

Mycroft raised an eyebrow and plucked his niece away from his body, she frowned in confusion but made no sound as she was placed into the small girl’s arms. Greg helped her get Maeve into a comfortable position.

“So, this is your daughter,” Silvia said after a moment.

“Yes, my youngest.” Greg said with a smile. “The others are round here somewhere.”

“Alex went to look for a book.” Violet explained. “And Jordon was in the kitchen.”

Jordon chose that moment to walk back in. He was wearing a pair of jeans and a shirt. “The cook said dinner’s ready.”

“The cook.” Silvia gasped.

John looked at the floor and Greg smiled. “This is my eldest, Jordon.”

Sherlock jumped to his feet and clapped his hands together. “Let’s get this over with then.”

Mycroft rolled his eyes.

 

* * *

 

Sherlock put Maeve down on the colourful tummy time mat beside his chair at the end of the table with a small smile, she looked up at him with love and obvious confusion. He ran a hand over her hair and down her face, her eyes shifted to the arches of colourful toys above her head and he quickly sat down, eyes fixed warily on her. 

“She ok?” John asked, leaning over the corner of the table to look at Maeve.

“Fine,” Sherlock answered, undoing his button jacket.

“I hope you like lamb,” Violet said to Silvia and Harold, sat across from them on the table.

“Yes.” Silvia nodded.

Sherlock picked up his fork and stabbed at his piece of lamb.

“Don’t play with your food.” His mother scolded and turned back to her new guests.

The moment her back was turned he stuck his tongue out, Chloe laughed and looked down at her own dinner. Greg sighed, “Please, do not teach her bad habits.”

“Why is it always me?” Sherlock asked. John snorted.

Maeve cried out loudly beside him and he looked down. Her face softened and she smiled up at him. Sherlock gave her a wary look, one of amazement and suspicion. He lifted his gaze and slowly turned back to the table. Maeve started to gurgle loudly as though she were talking to one of the toys.

“There’s no way that she’s going to sit quietly through the meal, is there?” John asked in a hushed tone.

“Nope.” Sherlock answered, popping the p.

 

* * *

 

Maeve made it halfway through the meal before she started screaming. Sherlock dropped his knife and fork with a loud clang onto his plate and twisted in his seat, placing his feet on each side of the colour mat. Her face was beat red and tears were beginning to stream down her face. He bent over and plucked her up, placing his hands under her arms and pulling her towards his chest. He placed one hand on her bum to keep her supported and placed the other on her neck, rubbing it gently. She stopped crying almost instantly.

Sherlock frowned and craned his neck to get a better view at her face.

Maeve was smiling at the rest of the table, small blue eyes flicking over the occupants with excitement.

Sherlock sighed and rolled his eyes.

“Manipulative,” he muttered.

Violet cast her son an amused smile. “You were the same Sherly.”

“Sherlock.” He snapped, glaring at his mother as he twisted back to face the table.

“You’d cry to get what you want.” She continued, ignoring him.

“Yeah, it’s common in babies.” Greg said. Sherlock raised an eyebrow. He went on, gesturing to his three children. “I’m not completely useless you know, and I do have kids.”

“I never said that,” Sherlock looked down at his plate. “You are extremely competent as both an officer of the law and a father.”

Greg looked taken back. “Right.”

Sherlock nodded and shifted Maeve into a seated position on his lap.

“Now,” Sherlock addressed his daughter, tone soft. “Can you sit through the rest of the meal without getting hysterical?”

Maeve gurgled.

Sherlock cast a doubtful look at her.

 

* * *

 

Dessert was a plum tarte and a large chocolate fudge cake.

Sherlock had Maeve cradled in one arm as he fed her. She drank enthusiastically from the bottle, blue eyes staring up at him and occasionally flicking to search for other familiar faces. The others were chatting about sports or school or something equally mundane.

“Are you ok?” John asked, leaning over the corner of the table.

“Fine.” Sherlock answered.

After a few minutes Maeve turned her head away and Sherlock put the bottle on the table.

“Done?” He asked her. Maeve blinked up at him and he shifted her to rest over his shoulder on the waiting muslin. He rubbed her back in the precise practiced motion he always did. After five minutes and a handful of burps, Sherlock stopped and pulled her away from his chest.

“Can I hold her?” Alex asked.

Sherlock nodded and Alex walked around the table. She took Maeve out of his hands and placed her against her chest, just as she’d seen him and Mycroft do. Maeve blinked for a moment in confusion but rested her head against the fourteen year olds collar bone, blue eyes flicking up.

“She’s bigger now,” Alex said more to herself than anybody else.

Mycroft hummed in acknowledgment.

Chloe skipped over and peered to get a look at Maeve.

“Chloe, sit down.” Greg said.

Chloe sighed but walked back to her seat. Greg placed a plate with a slice of chocolate cake in front of her.

“Can I hold her after?” Chloe asked with a mouth full of chocolate cake.

 

* * *

 

Chloe was sat on the sofa with Maeve beside her propped up on a pillow and Greg on her other side. Her eyes flicked between the grey haired man and his youngest daughter and she smiled, occasionally stopping to glance at her father for reassurance.

“What’s it like having a baby?” Chloe asked.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at the youngest of the Lestrade children.

“Is it fun?” She added thoughtfully.

“Yes.” Sherlock gave a single sure nod.

“If you like changing nappies,” John said with a pointed look.

Chloe’s nose wrinkled in disgust.

 

 

* * *

 

 

“It’s been lovely having you,” John said as he hugged his dad.

Sherlock managed a smile when Silvia pulled him into a one armed hug, wary of the sleeping infant.

“Please, thank your mother again.” She said.

Sherlock nodded and allowed Silvia to say goodbye to a sleeping Maeve.

They watched Silvia and Harold walk into the train station.

“Thank you.” John said, squeezing Sherlock’s arms.

“Back to Baker Street.” The consulting detective told the cabbie as he climbed back into the car.


	47. One Hundred and Three Days

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Holmes family go abroad. Part one of their holiday to France.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A quicker update, hallelujah but I beg you not to get to used to it because these chapters are significantly longer than the ones I am used to writing. This one is 5,000 and the previous chapter (the one before this) was 10,000.  
> Ideal Enemy will be uploaded at some point in the next fortnight, so look out for it, and hopefully Ideal Uncle will be uploaded too. Thanks for your continued support and please check me out on other social media, I have dedicated a thread to this fic on twitter, there are pictures and snippets, comments and just little things that have happened, will happen or might happen.

“I don’t know why I ever agreed to this,” Sherlock hissed into the blonde’s ear.

John jerked back and grabbed his ear. “Do you mind?”

“No.” Sherlock said simply, affronted.

The queue for security was long and moving at the pace of a snail and Maeve was squirming in his grasp, kicking him repeatedly in the stomach. Her eyes flicking over the crowded and loud airport. “I would appreciate it,” he said to her, quietly, loud enough that she and Mycroft, who was stood behind him, could hear. “If you would stop kicking me.”

Maeve whined.

“Yes.” He said. He shifted her into one arm and ran his other hand over her head, the soft strands of her hair tickling his fingers. “Almost there.”

Mycroft leaned in close and whispered, “ok?”

“Fine.” Sherlock dismissed, looking down at Maeve.

“She’s overstimulated.”

“I know.” Sherlock snapped, drawing the attention of a few other travellers.

“Apologies.” Mycroft muttered. “I didn’t mean to offend.”

“You didn’t.” Sherlock scoffed, looking over his shoulder at his brother. “She’s overstimulated and tired, there’s no way to calm her at this precise moment. She’s prickly and I’m…”

“Irritable.” Mycroft supplied.

Sherlock managed a small smile at that. He looked forward once more.

“Do you want me to take her?” John asked, turning around to face his partner.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes in the way he often did when he was deducing and pulled Maeve away from his body, and towards the blonde. John took her and turned her around to face him. He looked down at her with a fond smile and asked, turning back to face the front of the queue. “Have I told you about the time your daddy and I met?”

Maeve’s blue eyes flicked up to his face.

“Well, it was after I was discharged from the army…” John began.

Sherlock raised his eyebrows and turned to face and equally impressed looking Mycroft.

“He certainly has a way with her.” Mycroft said.

“Yeah, it’s because he doesn’t overthink it like you two.” Greg commented from beside the elder Holmes brother.

Sherlock looked insulted and Mycroft frowned.

“Overthink it?” Sherlock repeated.

“Yeah, she just needed something to concentrate on.” Greg answered simply. “Remember, dad.”

Sherlock frowned and turned away. “I never forget anything.”

Greg snorted and Mycroft smirked.

  

* * *

 

 

Once they were past security and Maeve was fed and asleep, his mother returned from her airside shopping with a new soft toy for Maeve. It was a toy cat, closely resembling Jade.

“Mother.” Sherlock scolded gently as he took the toy from her and placed it in his bag.

“Do you think she’s going to ok be on the flight?” John asked, settling beside him.

“I am unable to see into the future John.” Sherlock said simply, turning his face to look at the blonde.

“Git.” John said, looking down.

Sherlock frowned. “We can only hope.”

John’s head snapped up and he looked at the consulting detective with a mixture of amusement and surprise. “What?”

“You heard me,” Sherlock sniffed and looked forward. “I am not repeating it.”

“You’re hoping, Sherlock Holmes is hoping.”

“Shut up.” Sherlock snapped.

John laughed.

“I hate you.” He muttered.

John struggled to contain his laughter. “No you don’t. You love me.”

“Not anymore.” Sherlock articulated.

“Don’t be such a sour puss.”

“Sour puss.” Sherlock repeated, frowning.

“Yep.” John said, popping the ‘p’.

 

* * *

 

 

Maeve woke up the moment they began boarding the plane.

“Hoping she would sleep longer?” John asked, carrying both his own carry-on bag and Maeve’s.  

“Yes.” Sherlock admitted.

“Are you the window seat?”

“Yes.”

“This is going to be interesting.” John muttered.

Sherlock glanced over his shoulder at the blonde and then looked forward.

 

* * *

 

The air hostess had barely finished the rehearsed speech when Maeve whined loudly.

Sherlock jiggled her as much as he could sitting down.

“Shhh, he hushed, speaking into her ear. “It’s ok, daddy’s here.”

Maeve gurgled in response.

“Yes, I know.” He kissed the top of her head and then craned his neck to watch her face. Her blue eyes flicked to John and then back to his shirt.

 

* * *

 

The flight took off and Maeve, well, she cried. A sort of sniffling sob.

It was easy to deal with.

Sherlock just held her close, rocked her slightly and whispered to her. Eventually she stopped.

The second time was almost half an hour later.

She was shocked by the sound of the food cart and started crying. The hysterical scared cry of a small child unable to comprehend the reason or be consoled. Sherlock tried his hardest to calm her in the limit space. She continue to cry.

John tried the new toy.

Mycroft shifted in his seat and looked over it. “Do you need help?”

“What could you possibly do that would be any help?” Sherlock asked, raising an eyebrow.

Mycroft said nothing. He sat back down in his seat.

“Come on darling,” Sherlock hushed.

Maeve continued to cry. People were starting to look now, whispering to one another and casting judgemental looks. Not that Sherlock cared.

“Princess.” He whispered to her. There were tears streaming down her reddened face and dribble pooling at the corners of her mouth. He gestured to the purple baby bag and John picked it up for him, he grabbed the muslin on top and wiped her face quickly and methodically.

He placed the muslin back in the bag and placed his free hand on her head, cradling her closer than he thought possible and resting his lips on the top of her head. “Come on darling.”

“What do you need?” John asked.

“Nothing,” he answered. He continued to make reassuring hushing sounds as she cried.

“Darling, are you sure that there isn’t anything we can do to help you?” His mother asked, standing up and leaning over the chairs from behind.

Sherlock didn’t bother turning around. He simply said, “No.”

Violet nodded and sat down.

He leaned forward in his chair and rocked her side to side.

After a minute or two the crying was quieter.

“Come on darling, you’ll make yourself sick.” He said to her.

An air hostess appeared in the aisle, she leaned over and asked, “Is everything ok sir? Do you need anything?”

Sherlock glared at her.

“We’re fine, thank you.” John said with a polite smile.

“Are you sure?” She asked, persistent.

“There is nothing that you could offer me right now that would help to calm down my daughter.” Sherlock told her.

There were a few glances at that.

“If you need anything,” she said, still smiling but obviously disheartened. And with that she disappeared.

“Someone complained.” Sherlock said.

John frowned. “Wh -”

“She would have come over sooner if it were pure concern.” Sherlock said quickly. “She came over because somebody complained.”

“Why would someone complain?” John frowned and looked around critically at the other passengers.

“Second in, two rows in front.” Mycroft offered from the seats in front of them.

Both Sherlock and John looked. It was a middle aged couple, a man and woman.

Sherlock glared, it was less effective with his lips pulled into a pout and chin resting gently on his daughter’s head. He was still rocking her softly.

The woman, obviously childless and experiencing the pain of having her husband use male prostitutes, turned to peak at them. She froze at being caught and looked at them down her nose.

Sherlock lifted his chin challengingly and narrowed his eyes.

The woman tapped her husband’s arm, he jerked slightly, frowned and looked back.

“Don’t worry.” Sherlock said loudly. “The male prostitutes weren’t anything personal, they were the only way he could sustain an erection without using Viagra. I’m sure she’ll forgive you for the second mortgage. But she won’t for the not having children, it’s made her bitter.”

John snorted.

The pair looked utterly horrified and quickly looked forward.

“Right, that was brilliant.” John said quietly, “unnecessary but brilliant.”

“It was necessarily.” Sherlock groused, his eyes flicking down to Maeve.

 

* * *

 

Half an hour later, Maeve was still sobbing against his chest.

His shirt was wet with tears, saliva and snot.

Sherlock ran his hand over his daughter’s back in a slow and deliberate figure of eight pattern. He was tired and struggling, still unable to comfort his daughter. He turned his face to the side and looked at John. The blonde was reading, or trying to, a crime novel. “Can you get me her spare set of clothes?”

John looked up and frowned. Sherlock was being polite.

“Yes, you want to change her?”

Sherlock nodded.

“And her nappy?”

Sherlock nodded again.

“Right, and you want to do this here?”

“I hardly think the bathroom is appropriate,” Sherlock quipped.

John smirked and nodded. He pulled out a clean nappy and wipes along with clean clothes. It was a simple floral romper with short sleeves and a matching hat. John looked down at the hat and the back up at Sherlock, “perhaps we should forget the hat.”

Sherlock managed a smile at that and nodded. He lifted Maeve up and away from his chest. She looked around, suddenly worried. Sherlock hushed her, “it’s okay, we’re here.”

John placed the muslin on Sherlock’s lap and they laid her across it. They undressed her, and John quickly changed her wet nappy. Then, they wrestled her into the new. Sherlock ran his hand down her back. It was softer than her previous outfit and he was certain that would help calm her.

Sherlock nodded and gave John a look.

The blonde smiled and nodded in understanding.

There was no thank you necessary.

 

* * *

 

The moment the plane landed and the air hostess told them they were free to leave Sherlock grabbed the nappy bag, rose to his feet and rushed off of the plane leaving a confused John in his wake.

“He’s alright,” Siger assured him placing an arm around the younger man. “He just wants to get her calm.”

“I know.” John nodded.

“Come on, we have to get the car.”

“How far away is the cottage?” John asked, reaching up to collect his hand luggage.

“About two hours, but it’s worth it, we’ll have a break before then make sure she’s fed and had a sleep.”

John nodded.

 

* * *

 

Sherlock rushed off of the plane with no particular destination.

The woman waiting by the open doors gave him a sympathetic smile and pulled the door open further to allow him to pass, he managed a nod of acknowledgment. He didn’t stop until he was in a bathroom. He locked the door and placed the bag on the sink. He juggle Maeve up and down and whispered to her, “we’re ok, we’re both ok, you were such a good girl. You are beautiful and so grown up, and I love you.”

He kissed the top of her head and muttered. “I love you so much.”

Maeve whined but the sobbing stopped.

“Thank you, thank you darling.” He whispered. “I’m so proud of you.”

Maeve hiccupped, her whole body jerking with the force of it.

“My poor darling, you’ve given yourself the hiccups now.”

She hiccupped again.

Sherlock laughed softly.

 

* * *

 

Sherlock was stood beside the baggage carousel. Maeve was quiet and near sleep in his arms. The baby bag was hooked over his shoulder and he was jiggling her up and down in small smooth movements.

“Hey you,” John greeted.

Mycroft’s eyes flicked over his niece. Greg said, “You managed to settle her.”

Sherlock hummed in response.

“You ok?” John asked. Sherlock nodded. He leaned over and placed a kiss on the consulting detective’s cheek. “Good.”

“Get the bags.” Sherlock said.

John rolled his eyes and sighed.

 

* * *

 

The car they hired was a limo with a driver, according to Sherlock’s mother it was ‘easier’ and the cheaper alternative. Sherlock didn’t put up a fight, he just put Maeve in the car seat and slid in beside her.

Maeve slept for forty-five minutes before waking up. She was grizzly.

Then she was sick.

“Pull over,” Sherlock instructed the driver. He did just that, he pulled into a service station that they were about to pass. Sherlock unstrapped her and picked her up, ensure that she did no choke on her own vomit. John put a muslin over his shoulder a moment before he put Maeve against his torso and she continued to be sick over his shoulder on the muslin.

“Come on,” John gestured and opened the car door.

Sherlock slid out of his seat and into the open air.

“Let it all out,” John told the infant.

Maeve coughed and Sherlock rubbed her back in circular motions.

“Finished?” John asked, standing behind the consulting detective looking at her.

Sherlock attempted and failed to look over his shoulder.

“Yeah, she’s done.” John told him. Sherlock pulled her up and John took away the muslin. Violet handed the consulting detective a wipe and Sherlock dabbed at the sick around her mouth.

“Can you hold her?” Sherlock asked, looking at Mycroft as he stepped out of the car with a worried expression. He was taken back but nodded and accepted the baby. He held her out for a moment, eyes flicking over her before he brought her closer.

She sniffled.

“You’re ok beautiful.” He said to her quietly.

Sherlock turned to face them. His eyes were fixe on Maeve.

Maeve’s face scrunched up and she was sick.

They were shocked into silence as her sick hit Mycroft’s chest and dribbled down his jacket.

Sherlock didn’t bother to his hide his amusement. He grinned.

“Do not say a word.” Mycroft warned.

Sherlock laughed, a deep throaty sound that resonated.

“This is not funny.” The auburn haired man said, not amused.

“It is a bit Myc.” Violet said.

“At least she wasn’t sick on you,” John nodded to Sherlock.

Sherlock’s smiled widened. “Yes, a blessing.”

“Thank you for that.” Mycroft addressed his niece as he pulled her away from his chest.

“Don’t blame her,” Violet said, plucking up a handful of wipes and moving towards her eldest son.

Sherlock released a shaky breath, threatening to laugh once more, and took his daughter back from his brother, he had her body angled away from his, her side pressed against him so that he could see her face. “Yes, is that everything?” He asked her, stormy eyes flicking over her face in an attempt to read the expression.

Her blue eyes flicked to meet his and she released a sad whine.

“Yes, I know.” Sherlock said softly. He shifted her so that she was pressed against his chest, one hand on her bum and the other cradling her skull. “You’re ok.”

Violet was dabbing at Mycroft’s chest, spreading the mess more than anything while the auburn haired man looked to be on his last nerve, face red. “Stop moving.” His mother commanded.

“Stop fussing.” Mycroft countered.

Violet pulled back long enough to give her son a pointed look, one eyebrow raised, and then returned to her cleaning duties. Greg held up a bottle of water. Mycroft extended his arm and took it.

Greg patted his shoulder, the clean side of his jacket, and turned to face Sherlock and Maeve. “Has she been car sick before?”

“Yeah,” John nodded and placed a hand on the infant’s back, rubbing gently.

“The flight probably didn’t help…and the crying.”

Sherlock kissed the top of his daughter’s head, between his fingers and kept his lips there.

“Right, this is as good a place as any to stop,” Siger said, gesturing to the service station. “Let’s get something to eat and drink, and we’ll be back on the road in…fifteen minutes.”

“Twenty.” Sherlock said.

Siger frowned but nodded. “Twenty.”

 

* * *

 

Sherlock cradled Maeve and hushed her gently as they walked through the shop.

John picked up a few apples, a bag of crisps, bottled water and peach ice tea.

“What do you want?” John asked, turning to look at the consulting detective.

Sherlock nodded towards wall of sweets behind them.

John frowned, “you are a child.”

“What’s wrong with wanting something sweet?” Sherlock asked.

“Nothing,” John shrugged. “If you’re seven years old.”

Sherlock huffed and moved towards the sweets. He gestured to a packet of red sugar coated marshmallows.

John sighed but picked them up.

 

* * *

 

Maeve was asleep when Sherlock strapped her back into the car seat. Her face scrunched up but she didn’t wake up. Mycroft slid into his seat, his jacket hooked over his arm.

“Here you go,” John said, placing the bag of sweets in the consulting detective’s legs.

“Sweets, really?” Mycroft asked in disbelief.

Sherlock scowled at him.

“Leave him alone,” Violet said as she settled in her own seat. She turned to Sherlock. “He always had a sweet tooth as a child.”

“As I recall, I wasn’t the one with the sweet tooth.” Sherlock said, eyes flicking to Mycroft.

Mycroft sighed and Siger stepped in. “Don’t be mean to your brother.”

Sherlock pursed his lips but remained silent. He looked down at Maeve and placed the thin blanket over her legs, trailing one long finger down the side of her face and stopping on her chin.

“Is everybody ready?” the driver asked with a heavy French accent.

“Yes, please, drive on.” Violet answered.

 

* * *

 

The cottage was idyllic. A beautiful building of yellow tinted stone with ivy climbing up the front wall around the wooden door in the centre, white shutters around all the windows and a table and chair on a small patio.

Sherlock slid out of the car and turned back just as John passed him the car seat that occupied their sleeping daughter. He grabbed the car seat and held it steadily at his side.

“Wow.” John whistled as he climbed out of the car. “This place is…something alright.”

Sherlock hummed in response.

“Yes, we’d bring the boys here every summer.” Violet told him, “Come on.”

Sherlock allowed John to be taken by his mother and led towards the house. Sherlock picked up the baby bag and bee lined into the house and up the stairs.

“Where are you going?” John called after him.

Sherlock didn’t answer. Instead he carried on until he reached his room. It was the same one he used as a child. The walls were pale yellow and against the left wall was a large double bed, next to that was a new coat. The bed was freshly made with a pale yellow and white cover. There was a small white seat at the end of the bed and white furniture against the opposite wall. The windows were floor-length and opened onto a small balcony with metal furniture on it. There were potted plants in each corner with red flowers. Sherlock placed the car seat and bag onto the seat at the end of the bed and made quick of opening the doors. The result was instantaneous, a cool breeze entered the stuffy room.

Sherlock took a deep breath and turned back to face the room. He’s left the door ajar. And the door that led to the en suite bathroom was closed. He took two long steps and unstrapped Maeve. He picked her up with great care and brought her close to his body. With one hand he placed the car seat on the floor and then moved to the right side of the bed, the side closest to the open windows.

Maeve released a long steady breath in her sleep.

“Let’s have a little lay down darling.” He said, more to himself than anything else.

He moved the pillows with his free arm into an arrow head position and placed her on the left side of the bed, he then stripped himself of his jacket and shirt, both of which were dry but covered in Maeve’s saliva, snot and tears. Then, he carefully placed himself beside her, on his side, eyes facing her.

He ran a finger over her cheek.

 

* * *

 

“Shall I take these up?” John asked, glancing up the stairs.

“Allow me,” Mycroft said, picking up the two suitcases and bag on top of it.

“No, I couldn’t.” John argued.

“Its fine,” Mycroft assured him. “Sherlock is in his room, it’s the second on the right.”

“Come on John,” Violet said, placing her hand on the blonde’s arm. “I’ll show you to the patio.”

John smiled and nodded.

“Yeah,” Greg said, clapping his hands together.

Mycroft watched them all moved towards the back of the house and out of the patio doors. He then picked up the bags and took them upstairs, when he reached the top he pulled them towards the room. He tapped his knuckles against the door and pushed it open. Sherlock was lain on his side, eyes closed, with Maeve next to him. He placed the bag at the end of the bed and nodded once before leaving.

He closed the door and went back downstairs.

 

* * *

 

When Maeve woke up it was to her daddy staring at her. She yawned and a tired smile settled on her face.

“Hello,” Sherlock greeted.

He gave her five minutes to properly wake up, allowing her to chew on his finger.

Then he got up and changed into a pair of black swimming trunks and changed Maeve into a new swimming costume, it was black and yellow striped with a small ruffle shirt around the waist. He rubbed sun cream into both her skin and her, then picked her and placed her on his hip.

“Come on you,” he said to her. “Want to go for a swim with daddy?”

Maeve gurgled in response.

Sherlock picked up two clean towels.

They were all sat on the patio, spread out around the pool on normal and longue seats. His mother had brought out a jug of ice tea and the correct amount of cups, John and Greg had a beer each.

“Sherlock,” Greg looked up and spotted him. He frowned.

“Going for a swim?” Siger asked, turning in his chair.

Sherlock nodded and placed both of the towels on the end of John’s seat.

He moved towards the pool steps looked in. He asked Maeve, “ready?”

There was no answer.

“Wait, I must get the camera.” Violet instructed.

Sherlock sighed but did as he was told, better to avoid the headache of an argument. She reappeared with her camera and thrust her phone at Siger with the unspoken request, ‘take pictures’.

“Turn around.” She instructed.

Sherlock did, he turned to face his mother and waited while she took photos.

“You could at least smile.” She commented.

Sherlock flashed a fake grin. “Better.”

Violet sent him an unimpressed look.

“May I?” Sherlock asked gesturing to the pool.

Violet nodded.

Sherlock stepped into the pool, it was warm. With a satisfied sigh he walked down the steps and down into the water, at this end, it reached his mid-torso and the bottom of Maeve’s legs were submerged. She seemed unfazed, intent at staring at the water, her eyes flicking up to Sherlock’s excitedly and then back down to the water. Her mouth was parted in silent but obvious anticipation. He ran his hand down her back and walked further into the pool, careful to keep her high above the water line.

He stopped near the other end. It was deeper there and reached his chest. Maeve was submerged, only her shoulders, neck and head above water. Her hands were in the water and already splashing wildly.

“Yes, thank you.” He said, shooting her a displeased look.

Maeve flashed him a gummy smile.

Violet walked around the pool and continued to take photos.

“You’ll run out of memory,” Sherlock warned her.

“I brought extra memory cards.”

Sherlock smiled at Maeve and enjoyed the way that she splashed, looked up at him for confirmation, amused and then looked back down at the water and splashed again. After a moment he pried her away from his chest with great care and held her, both hands beneath her arm, he moved her slowly through the water, careful that it did not splash in her face. Her eyes were fixed on the moving water.

“Look at her,” Violet cooed from the side of the pool. “She looks delighted.”

“Yes,” Sherlock said, eyes fixed on his daughter.

 

* * *

 

Sherlock handed Maeve to John the moment he stepped out of the pool. The blonde wrapped the infant in a towel and pulled her closed, bundled in the pale yellow material. She looked up at him and smiled, as if to say ‘look what we just did’. John smiled and kissed the top of her wet head. “Yes, I saw you, did you have a good time with your daddy?”

Maeve yawned loudly and dropped her head to rest on John’s shoulder.

He ran a hand over her towel covered back.

Violet took the opportunity to snap a few photos.

 

* * *

 

Dinner was a simple pasta dish with pesto, salad, garlic bread and chilli grilled chicken.

They all returned to their bedrooms after a coffee or tea.

John closed the bathroom door behind him and smiled at the sight of Sherlock stood in the doorway with Maeve in his arms, wrapped in a blanket, he was telling her about a case, an old one, something about a green ladder. His deep baritone low and rumbling in the quiet night air.

His eyes flicked up and met John’s before lowering again.

John silently climbed into the bed and rearranged the pillows in the way he knew Sherlock liked.

When Sherlock was finished his story and Maeve snoring softly, he kissed the top of her head and placed her in the cot, his hands lingering on her before he pulled back.

John pulled the duvet back and Sherlock climbed in, pulling the duvet over his body and turning to face his partner. His eyes narrowed critically. “You’re upset with me.”

“No, I’m just tired.” John said.

Sherlock raised his eyebrow. “Not upset with me?”

“No, I just hated it, knowing that I couldn’t do anything to calm her.” He explained. “Earlier.”

“If you recall, I was unable to calm her.”

“Yeah, but I just don’t like it when she’s upset.”

“Me too.” Sherlock admitted.

“Well, she’s fine now, everything’s fine.”

Sherlock managed a smile at that.

 

* * *

 

Greg was lain on a blanket spread across the grass. His shirt was scrunched up beneath his head and his chest was already looking red beneath the salt and pepper strands of hair that covered the top of his chest. He sighed and lolled his head to the side to look at John, who was lain on his side dressed in a pair of swimming trunks and a white vest, head propped up in his hand. Maeve was using him for support, back against the blonde’s tummy. She wore only a nappy with a pair of swimming light blue swimming pants with small pink flowers on. Her pale skin was covered with the sheen of sun cream and her hair, starting to curl was pushed over her forehead that was almost invisible beneath the white floral sunhat tied onto her head. In her lap was the soft bee toy Mycroft had brought for her soon after her arrival to Baker Street.

“This is the life.” Greg said as he stretched out.

John hummed in acknowledgement. He preferred to be up and active but the relaxation was nice, unlike anything he’d experienced since moving in with Sherlock.

Maeve gurgled loudly.

Greg opened one eye and reached across to her soft toy. “You like it to.”

“She’s responding to your voice, not what you said.” Mycroft spoke up from behind his book.

Greg poked his tongue out in the direction of the auburn haired man.

Mycroft rolled his eyes. “How childish.”

Greg rolled onto his side to face Maeve and smiled. She watched him carefully, curiously, and after a moment returned the smile with one of her own, the open mouth kind full of gums. Greg chuckled softly. “You are so precious.” He lifted his hand from the toy and moved it towards her face.

She watched his hand and looked down, eyes crossing slightly as his fingers ran over her chin.

Sherlock stepped onto the patio.

“Find anything?” John asked, looking up at him.

The scowl told him everything he needed to know. “Nothing,” he took a breath and hissed. “Isn’t it hateful?”

It was rhetorical. John didn’t say anything, instead he smiled at Maeve and ran his free hand over her hat covered head. She tried to follow the movement but failed and fell back against his tummy. Her blue eyes flicked to John and his smile widened, seemingly happy Maeve continued to rest completely against him, smiling up and pulling her soft toy with her.

“This is the south of France, not Paris.” Greg said.

Sherlock huffed but didn’t answer.

“You could try relaxing,” he went on, emphasising the last word. “You know, read a book, pick up a magazine, and paint a picture…or whatever it is you do to relax.”

“I don’t relax.” Sherlock spat, walking around the pool and stepping over the detective inspectors legs.

“You’re a full-time parent and work too, you must do something to relax.”

Sherlock looked at the ground and muttered, “Not anymore.”

There was a brief silence and Mycroft glanced over the top of his book at them. Sherlock just sat himself down, crossing his legs elegantly as he dropped and lent down towards Maeve. He smiled and watched as her attention shifted to him. She opened her mouth and closed it again.

Sherlock tapped his fingers rhythmically on his leg.

John followed the movement and then placed his hand between Maeve’s back and his stomach. He moved into a sitting position and then lifted Maeve to sit on his lap. She looked up but made no sound.

“Say hello to Daddy.” John told her softly, lifting her hand and waving to the consulting detective.

Sherlock didn’t smile, his expression softened slightly but he remained frowning.

John sighed and lifted Maeve up. “Go and cheer your Daddy up.”

He handed her over to the consulting detective who had no choice but to take her, his frown deepened but Maeve smiled and moved towards his face as he brought her closer. He turned his face and allowed her to maul or kiss, his cheek. There was a trail of saliva left in her wake. He placed her on his chest, hand running down her back and over the small ridges of her spine. “Thank you.”

Maeve gurgled and placed her head on his shoulder with a yawn.

 

* * *

 

Dinner was at a restaurant in town.

It was a nice meal.

“Are you coming?” Violet asked, gesturing towards the car.

Sherlock shook his head. “We’ll walk.”

Violet frowned but nodded and the others left them, Sherlock, John and Maeve, on the side of the road.

“It’s only ten minutes.” Sherlock told John.

He shifted Maeve to rest against his chest, her head on his shoulder and mouth parted as her breathing evened out, sleep taking over her small tired form. John had the bag hooked over his shoulder. He smiled and they walked back to the cottage together, their sides pressed together.

There was nothing but the sound of soft snoring, breathing and the countryside to accompany them.


	48. One Hundred and Six Days

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Still on holiday. There are ups and downs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey I've been super stressed recently so please, just be patient with me while I work on this because I'm in week two of my final year of uni and its super stressful. I will update as soon as I am possible.   
> And guys, please look for me on twitter and instagram because snippets do appear and I talk about my fic alot.

Sherlock’s eyelashes fluttered open and he was greeted with the sight of John Watson, glorious John Watson, still asleep and basked in sunlight, his skin, golden, and greying blonde hair, shimmering in the gentle morning light. He was flat on his back, diagonal across the bed, with one arm over his head and the other trapped beneath Sherlock’s body. Sherlock, for lack of better term, was sprawled across his lover. Lain on his side, arm across the blonde’s chest and face tucked into his neck. They were cocooned in each other.

Sherlock smiled and nuzzled his face into John’s neck. He was careful, not wanting to disturb the older man, but that didn’t deter him. He kissed the exposed skin there, soft gentle caresses of his lips as he listened to the sounds of sleep. John was no longer snoring, he breathing was starting to regulate and he was waking up. Maeve, still snoring, was asleep in her cot.

“What are you doing?” John asked, voice rough. His lips pulling into a smile.

Sherlock placed one last kiss on the skin and shifted, lifting himself up onto his forearms so that he was close to and could look at the ex-soldier. John watched him carefully, gazing up the consulting detective fondly.

“Saying good morning,” Sherlock said.

“Well, in that case,” John smiled, running his hands up the consulting detectives pale arms. “Good morning.”

“Good morning.” Sherlock said again, leaning down to kiss the blonde.

“She still sleeping?” John asked, pulling back.

Sherlock growled in annoyance. “Yes.”

“Don’t get grumpy.” John chuckled. His eyes shifted in the direction of the cot. “ _We_ wouldn’t want to start something that we couldn’t finish.”

Sherlock ignored the blonde and ducked his head down, he began to pepper the older man’s chest in kisses, soft kisses, too soft, and teasing. The blonde took a shaky breath.

Maeve stirred and yawned loudly.

Sherlock paused and John looked up at him, lips threatening to tug into a smile. The consulting detective waited, Maeve gurgled, calling out to the occupants of the room, and his eyes fell shut in annoyance.

“Go and get her,” John instructed.

Sherlock sighed and rolled onto his back, successfully rolling onto the blonde’s legs.

“You go get her,” Sherlock huffed, looking up at the ceiling.

John pulled his legs out from underneath the other man. “You’re such a baby.” He sat up and located his dressing gown on the back of the door. He sighed, his pants were on the other side of the room. “Can you get my pants?”

“Get your own pants.” Sherlock grumbled.

There was a knock on the door. Sherlock frowned and John’s eyebrows raised.

“Go away.” Sherlock shouted and Maeve gurgled loudly at the sound, aware that she was not only being ignored but her daddy was close and refusing to pick her up.

The door creaked open and Violet walked into the room, she practically sung. “Don’t mind me.”

“We do mind!” Sherlock snapped.

Violet ignored him. She looked at the clothes on the floor with vague annoyance, at the two men on the bed with a small knowing smile that caused both John and Sherlock to blush like teenagers and then to the cot, with a determined look on her face. She crossed the room and bent over, plucking up Maeve in a single movement.

“What are you doing?” Sherlock asked quickly.

“She needs breakfast Sherlock.” His mother said. Maeve blinked sleepily, her head resting on her grandmother’s shoulder. “I just thought I’d get her for you, give you some…alone time.”

“We have alone time.” Sherlock said.

“Yes, I know, darling.” She said dismissively, turning and leaving the room.

The door shut.

Sherlock took a long breath and threw the covers off of his body.

“What are you doing?” John asked instantly on alert, frowning.

“She can’t just take her,” Sherlock spat as he searched the room naked for his pyjama bottoms, they were still folded at the top of the suitcase. He pulled them on and rushed out of the room. John cursed and quickly found some clothes before following.

 

* * *

  

“Look who’s awake,” Violet beamed as she walked into the kitchen with the sleepy baby in her arms.

Siger and Mycroft were sat at the table. The elder man looked up from his breakfast with a small smile and Mycroft glanced up from his newspaper with a slight frown, brow creasing and lips pulling together into a tight, forced smile, for the sake of his mother. He opened his mouth to voice his disapproval but stopped at the sound of the door hitting the wall loudly upstairs and his brother rushing down the stairs. Mycroft shared a look with his father that could mean only one thing, trouble.

Sherlock jumped the last stairs and turned the corner into the kitchen clad only in a pair of silk pyjama bottoms. His dark curls were in complete disarray and his eyes wild, fixed on his mother as his nostrils flared.

“Give her back,” Sherlock said, voice dangerously calm.

“Sherlock,” Violet frowned in confusion. “I’m just going to give her some breakfast.”

“I am perfectly capable.” He said, stretching his arms towards his mother, fingers twitching.

“Don’t be so silly.”

“Silly.” He repeated, taking a deep breath.

John reached the bottom of the stairs and paused, watching the scene.

“I’m just trying to help.” She said, shifting Maeve slightly so that she was resting in one hand.

“I do not need your help.” Sherlock sneered, dropping his arms and taking a step closer to his mother.

“I just want to give her breakfast.” Violet said, a little firmer, eyes flicking to Mycroft.

“Do not look at him for help.” Sherlock snapped. “This is the _one_ thing he doesn’t control. This is mine. _She_ is mine.” He paused, voice low, “Now, give me back my daughter.”

Mycroft looked at the ground and John stepped round, behind Sherlock, his eyes fixed on the consulting detective’s back. “Your mum just wanted to spend some time with her.”

Sherlock didn’t respond. He didn’t even turn around. His eyes remained fixed on his mother.

“Give her back now.” Sherlock said slowly.

Violet remained still. “I just thought-”

“Nobody asked you to, just, give her to me.” Sherlock interrupted.

Mycroft cleared his throat and stood up, he carefully plucked the sleepy baby from his mother’s arms, keeping his eyes pointedly on Sherlock. He pulled Maeve close to his own body and allowed his gaze to drop to the top of her head for a second, checking that she was okay as her lip quivered threateningly and her head dropped onto his shoulder. He cleared his throat and fixed his brother with a firm look, the kind that left nothing to the imagination, Sherlock was not getting what he wanted, not this time. “Take some time.”

“I don’t want to take some time!” Sherlock shouted.

Maeve jerked at the sound. Mycroft ran a hand down her back and hushed gently. “Shhh.”

Sherlock pale, horrified with himself and amending his tone. “Give her to me.”

“I will return her to you,” Mycroft said with a small nod, grey eyes flicking over his brother. “Once you have calmed down.”

“I’ll calm down,” Sherlock negotiated, “ _when_ you give her to me.”

Mycroft raised an eyebrow in doubt. “You are no use to her in this state. Go, calm down, and I will give her back to you, then, and only then.”

Sherlock’s expression turned murderous. He took a breath, eyes flicking from his brother to his daughter and then stormed off, practically running up the stairs.

John have a small nod and asked Mycroft, “You ok with her?”

“She’ll be fine,” Mycroft assured him.

John nodded. “I’ll just…” he gestured upstairs and then moved towards the stairs.

“Come on darling,” Mycroft said, his voice merely lowered in volume, he kissed the top of her head and moved back to his previous chair. “Let’s have some breakfast.”

  

* * *

 

 

“Your father just needs some time to calm down.” Mycroft told his niece as they strolled through the garden, or rather, he strolled with her against held in his arms, sitting up with her back against his chest and his hand on her stomach, keeping her both in an upright position and close to his body. She looked out at the gardens, blue eyes flicking over the boards of flowers and bushes, the green grass and cloudless blue sky.

Maeve released a long high-pitched whine.

Mycroft raised an eyebrow. “Quite.”

She replied with a babble-like sound.

“He just loves you,” he said, sighing.

“We all do,” he added thoughtfully.

He looked up at the sound of someone approaching. The quick practiced footsteps told him that it was his brother and he turned to face him. Sherlock had calmed down somewhat but his expression was cold and calculated, his eyes flicked over them both in one intense flick. He stopped in front of them.

Mycroft raised one eyebrow.

“Don’t.” Sherlock warned.

Mycroft sighed and pulled Maeve away from his chest. Sherlock placed his hands underneath her arms and pulled her close, she kicked excitedly, landing one or two feet in his ribs before settling against his, sighing in content and mouthing at his neck. He felt the tension melt away from his body but kept his rigid position and hard expression, not wanting to reveal anything to Mycroft.

“You need to apologise.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes and kissed the top of his daughters head.

“Sherlock.” Mycroft said with a little more force.

Sherlock met his gaze and spoke slowly. “Your warnings are tiresome, brother mine.”

Mycroft tilted his head thoughtfully and his eyes narrowed.

He continued. “If you continue, I _promise_ that you will never see my daughter again.”

Mycroft was taken back. “Excuse me?”

“I will make sure that you never see me or Maeve again,” he said again, his voice calm and sure. There was no doubt that this was a threat, a threat that Mycroft had no doubt that his brother would follow through on. “I will take her, and we will disappear. You know that I can, and I will, if you continue to hold your misguided sense of power over me and my raising of her.”

“I-” Mycroft managed. The confusion and shock choking down his words.

“I am her father. I will raise her in whatever way I see fit and you will watch, and keep whatever” he waved his hand dismissively, “ _reservations_ you have to yourself, well, you won’t, but the moment you make a threat against me or Maeve, to take her away, or whatever it is you want to do to destroy your own future happiness, I will make sure that you never see or hear anything of us again. Don’t say anything, just walk away.”

Mycroft took a moment, then nodded and walked away.

Sherlock took a deep breath and placed his lips on Maeve’s head. The soft dark strands tickled his nose and mouth but he ignored the sensation in favour of keeping his lips there, in a lingering kiss. He pulled back enough to place his nose on her head and his lips, lingering at her temple. “I love you.”

Maeve gurgled and squirmed against him.

“Yes,” he ran his hand down her back in a gesturing that was equally comforting to him and her. “Uncle Mycroft is very naughty, but its ok, you’ve got daddy to look after you.”

Maeve whined.

He smiled and placed a kiss on her temple.

  

* * *

 

 

Sherlock didn’t apologise. There must have been a rule against it or something because he didn’t apologise. On the rare occasion that he did, it was sincere and needed.

John looked up from his book when Sherlock stepped into the house, Maeve in his arms. He spotted his mother immediately and his said in a sheepish voice. “There was a shop, in the town we passed, it had baby clothes in it, they were…pink.” He cleared his throat. “Would you like to take Maeve?”

Violet smiled and nodded quickly.

John smiled to himself. Even when he didn’t apologise, the git knew how to make it up to someone.

 

* * *

 

 

Three pink tops, white and grey shorts, five different kind of ‘pretty’ dresses and some booties, and they were done. His mother had forgotten about the morning, only scolding him once and offering a short apology about ‘interfering’. Now, back at the villa, with Maeve in the bath and him knelt at the side, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, soap bubbles sticking to his skin and the silk of his shirt, he was relaxed.

He watched her kick in the water.

“Is that nice?” He asked, voice soft.

Maeve looked up at him. Her blue eyes were wide and curious, there was something else there, almost like love, and she flashed him a gummy smile.

“You know that you’re very special to me.” Maeve blinked up at him and then looked back down at the bubbles in the water and kicked her legs. Sherlock couldn’t hold back a smile at the sight of her. “You mean everything to daddy and though he gets angry sometimes, it’s not you, it’s never you, it’s…other people, they interfere, but we don’t need them, we’ve never needed them.”

Maeve looked back up at Sherlock with a thoughtful expression.

He sighed in response and admitted. “Fine, we do need them.”

Maeve gurgled.

“I love you very much.” Maeve squeal in response, the sound echoing off the bathroom walls. “Yes, no need to blow it out of proportion. We don’t want you getting a big head. You’ll never grow into it otherwise.”

Maeve frowned. Sherlock rolled his eyes and sighed, he picked up some bubbles and placed them on her small round tummy. She looked down at the bubbles and grabbed at them with her small hands, the bubbles squishing between her fingers and popping, she watched in wonder.

“I love watching you,” he told her, “your mind, the way it works is fascinating. You’re dormant, there’s so much for you still to learn and do but you’ve already learnt so much. I’m so proud of you.”

Maeve babbled and continued to play with the bubbles.

“You are the most important thing to _ever_ happen to me.” He said, grey eyes resting on her. He stopped and added on quickly, “well there’s your Papa too, he saved my life, quite literally as he already told you. He said that I was being stupid and careless and that’s how I get my…” he cleared his throat, “well, yes, he saved me from myself and gave me a reason to not to risk my life in search of a proving my genius. It makes me an idiot apparently, well according to him, you know him he’s easily confused.”

Maeve sneezed.

“Bless you.”

She looked up at him with wide blue eyes, pleading for him to go on.

He nodded and continued. “He’s an idiot but he’s not like the rest. He’s quite remarkable really, you wouldn’t think it if you saw him, poor unsuspecting John Watson but there’s more than meets the eye. There always is, that’s important, don’t forget that. With Papa it’s his history. He’s strong and brave. A doctor and a solider. Warrior and healer. People tend to forget that. They forget that he’s extraordinary because I’m a genius. There’s no need being modest, modesty gets you nowhere. I outshine him, apparently. I make his extraordinariness less extraordinary.” He frowned at himself. “Never tell anybody that I said that, especially your uncle, he’d have a heart attack. All those posh schools and I sound like a goldfish.”

He picked up the shampoo and showed it to her. “Time to wash your hair.”

He continued as he rubbed the shampoo into her hair softly in small circles. “I know that you love him, you love to spend time with him, he’s one of your favourite people, he takes care of you, and he will _always_ take care of you. His sister is questionable but that shouldn’t affect our opinion on him…much. He is going to take you swimming tomorrow and we’re going for a walk with a picnic. It sounds rather pedestrian to me but mummy is insisting.”

Maeve huffed in annoyance as Sherlock stopped rubbing in the baby shampoo and quickly tipped water to wash it away, using his hand as a shield to protect her face.

“Time to get out.” He announced, rising to his feet. Sherlock plucked her up, careful of her slippery skin and wrapped her up in a small soft towel, leaving only her face revealed. He placed a kiss on her small nose. She blinked in surprised and her eyes crossed in an attempt to look at her own nose, when she failed, she looked back up at Sherlock. Her expression was torn between pride and annoyance. Sherlock bit his lip to stop himself smiling. “Yes, you’re very smart darling. A genius.”

He pulled her close and placed her against his chest. One hand on her bum and the other on her back, her face was tilted upwards and to the side, so that she could see him. He craned his own neck so that he could watch her. “You’re perfect. I love you.”

He sighed and said over in a bored tone, “Are you going to continue eavesdropping forever?”

John snorted from the doorway and Sherlock glanced over his shoulder. The blonde was lent against the doorway with his arms crossed over his chest and one leg crossed delicately over the other.

“I didn’t want to disturb you.” John said.

“Yes, well, it’s rude to eavesdrop or some nonsense.” He said as he turned to face him.

“Yes,” a frown formed on John’s face. “Totally ridiculous of me to listen in on a conversation my boyfriend -”

“Partner.” Sherlock corrected.

 “- is having with our three month old daughter. Shameful really,” he couldn’t suppress the smile. “Shameful.”

“Yes,” Sherlock said, taking notice. “You can stop now.”

“Are you going to stop?”

“Should I?” Sherlock countered, narrowing his eyes.

“Yes, please do, it’s all rather flattering.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes and stepped towards John, the blonde didn’t move for a moment but then stepped backwards, out of the doorway, and allowed his partner to pass, following him to the bed the bed. He place Maeve in the centre, still wrapped in her towel, her eyes flicked to the ceiling and then back to Sherlock as though she were feeling betrayed at being put down. She frowned and John sat down beside her.

“Hello darling,” the blonde greeted her with a smile.

Maeve was unsure for a moment but then smiled back at him.

“Do you want to moisturise her or should I?” Sherlock asked, holding up a bottle of expensive looking baby lotion and shaking it from side to side for affect.

John stared up at him and then sighed and held out his hand expectantly. “Go on then.”

Sherlock smiled and gave it to him.

“Why am I doing this?” The blonde asked, unwrapping Maeve from the towel cocoon she was in and beginning the process of rubbing the lotion onto her pale skin. She made the job more difficult by kicking and flinching the moment he touched her skin. “Sorry, is it cold?”

Maeve looked up at him.

“I do enjoy this part of her routine.” Sherlock admitted, shucking his wet shirt and placing it on top of the suitcase. “I just thought you would want to participate.”

“I do want to participate.” John said, “But the cream is cold and she doesn’t like it.”

“I doubt she’d like dry flaky skin.” Sherlock said simply.

John gave him a ‘of course you’re right’ look. And finished with the cream. He picked her up, leaving the towel wrapped her around the bottom half of her body and placing her in a sitting position on his lap, staring out at Sherlock. He lent down and kissed the top of her head.

“And for the record,” John said, his lips still on Maeve’s head and words muffled slightly, “she knows that you love her and so do I.”

Sherlock said nothing, just paused in his ministrations and stared at him.

He continued. “And I love you too, even if you are a massive idiot most of the time.”

“You need to work on your declarations of love.” Sherlock commented.

John flashed him a smile. “I love you.”

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed as though he was waiting for something, when it didn’t come he looked at the ground, back up again and cleared his throat. “I love you John.”

“And Maeve.” John prompted.

“Don’t be ridiculous.” Sherlock snapped. “Of course I love her. Even the idiots at Scotland yard can see that.”


	49. One Hundred and Nine Days Old

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry that this took so long, basically I'm trash and don't deserve all you lovely readers. No, I started university again which has been pretty intense and well, I've been ill, like seriously ill, I caught meningitis. So, yeah, I've been recovering and just so drained physically, emotionally and creatively, this chapter is utter crap and I'm so sorry about that, I will be better, I promise. I can't apologize enough, I feel awful about this - the quality of the chapter and making you all wait so long. I'm sorry, so sorry.

Sherlock found himself exceedingly annoyed. The flight was delayed and the airport full with people eager to return home, all seats were being used as beds for children and their families, the shops were closed, all except a few places which sold food and drink. His mother and father were sat on a set of four seats, the two between them empty except for the nappy bag and a blanket, and opposite them were Greg, Mycroft and John, all of which were looking bored.

Sherlock paced between the two rows of seat his family occupied. He stepped around the bags and gently rocked Maeve with each step he took. His eyes were fixed on her. She was looking up at him, her eyes dropping with exhausting and her mouth parted in the anticipation of the soft even breathing that sleep brought. Her hands were clutching his shirt, fingers grasping the silk as her eyes finally closed and she allowed her overtired body to fall asleep.

“Is she asleep?” His mother asked, looking up from the magazine that she was reading.

“Almost.” Sherlock nodded and craned his neck to get a better view at her. She was already snoring softly against his chest and her grip slackening slightly but not letting go.

He kissed the top of her head softly and then craned his neck to check her for a response, there was none apart from the slight wrinkling of her nose. The lines softened and she relaxed further into sleep. Satisfied, Sherlock moved back to his seat, his father dutifully lifted the blanket a moment before the consulting detective plopped himself down. Siger placed the blanket over Maeve’s back. The only sign of thanks from Sherlock was his eyes flicking up to his father, face softening minutely before looking back at Maeve and settling further down in his seat.

“Do you need anything?” His father asked.

Sherlock frowned and shook his head.

“Do you want your phone?” John asked, plucking the device from his pocket.

“Why do you have my phone?”

“You told me to check your emails,” John frowned. “For any interesting cases.”

The consulting detective’s frown deepened.

“Twenty minutes ago,” Mycroft prompted.

Sherlock opened his mouth and then closed it again. “Right…” he said, unconvinced. “Anything interesting?”

John shrugged. “Missing husband.”

“Eloped with lover.”

“Lost a day -”

“Drugs.”

“- no previous drug use.” John finished.

“Boring.” Sherlock declared.

John rolled his eyes. “A missing teenage girl.”

Sherlock pursed his lips in consideration.

“It could be interesting. Says here,” John added, reading from the screen. “That she disappeared on her way home from college two weeks ago.”

“Boring.” Sherlock decided, closing his eyes as though it settled the matter.

“Sherlock.” His mother scolded. She closed her magazine and fixed him with a look that clearly said ‘do as you’re told’. “Imagine Maeve went missing.”

Sherlock opened his eyes and glared at his mother. “I do not have to imagine that.”

His mother’s face softened in apology.

Siger cleared his throat. “Your mother only meant that you would want every available body to be on your side to help you find her.”

Sherlock took a moment then conceded with a loud sigh. “Fine.”

“Do you want me to set up a meeting?” John asked, phone in hand.

“Yes, tomorrow afternoon.” Sherlock said thoughtfully. “And make sure they send over anything relevant, police reports etcetera. Pictures.”

“Right…” John looked up from the screen. “Anything else?”

Sherlock shook his head.

Greg sighed and folded his arms over his chest. “I hate airports.”

Mycroft said nothing, just shot an equally annoyed look at his partner then looked down at the floor.

  

* * *

 

 

Sherlock moved with the swagger of a man trying to keep his daughter asleep. The other people in the airport paid him no mind as he walked, dipping slightly on every second step, and rocking his torso from side to side. Maeve was sleeping but the twitching of her lip suggested that she would wake soon, far before she was ready to and that, would not be good. She’s be grumpy and refuse to sleep. And the already tortuous airport experience would be unbearable.

Sherlock allowed his eyes to flick over the many tired travellers, set up on the seats for the night, waiting for their flights. He was on his second lap when a flight to the coast of Greece was announced. A flood of people leapt to their feet, grabbed their bags and moved towards the gate. Sherlock moved his hand up to Maeve’s head and held her close, his large hand covering her ear. She frowned but didn’t wake.

He stepped aside and lent against a wall to avoid the throng of moving bodies. They passed with tired smiles.

“We’ll be home soon,” he told her gently. “Back in London, in Baker Street.”

Maeve whined in her sleep.

“Mrs Hudson will want to hold, well, _cuddle_ ,” he said the word with quiet disgust, “you. And Jade will be happy you’re back, that cat loves you, the stupid thing. And you can sleep for as long as you like, and help Daddy with a new case, finding someone like when you were lost…” he cleared his throat and looked up.

A flash of blonde caught his attention. His eyes darted to the source, a woman amongst the crowd wearing a knee length dress and heels. She moved with the group towards the gate. Too fast. Sherlock pushed himself off of the wall and craned his neck in an attempt to get a better view of her. Nothing. She was moving too fast and all he could see was her back. He frowned.

_Too familiar._

He looked down at Maeve.

“Let’s go find Papa,” he suggested to the sleeping infant, voice shaky.

 

* * *

 

John looked up from his book the moment Sherlock sat down beside him, frowned but said nothing. Sherlock looked as though he’d seen a ghost. He was paler than usual and looked uncomfortable. John closed the book and leaned towards the taller man, he cleared his throat quietly and asked, “You ok?”

Sherlock nodded, his eyes firmly fixed on Maeve. The ‘we’ll talk about it later’ passed silently between them.

“I really wish they’d hurry up,” his mother complained.

Siger put his hand on hers and squeezed. “It won’t be much longer.”

“These seats are dreadfully uncomfortable.”

The loudspeaker crackled and came to life. “All those on the flight to…”

Sherlock stood up in one smooth movement. “Thank God.”

John snorted and followed suit.

 

* * *

 

Maeve woke up the moment the plane touched ground in London.

Her eyes shot open and she released a single high pitched whine in warning. Sherlock hushed her gently and cradled her small skull in his hand, brushing the soft strands of hair until she relaxed. Her eyes flicked up to his face, she sighed, and then looked back down at the pale column of his neck. She yawned.

“Go back to sleep,” he insisted, keeping his voice low.

Maeve closed her eyes again.

“Good girl.” He kissed the top of her head.

“Almost home,” John said quietly.

Sherlock managed a small tight smile at that. It was forced but John knew he was relieved.

“She slept the whole flight.” John commented.

“Can you take her?” Sherlock asked.

“Yes, of course, why now?”

“My arms ache.” Sherlock admitted. He lifted the sleeping baby away from his chest and handed her to John, who took her and placed her in the same position. She stirred but did not wake.

“We’ll be off in a minute,” John said.

“Then home.” Sherlock added.

 

* * *

 

The cab stopped at Baker Street first. Greg helped the luggage, lifting the bags into hallway.

“Need anything else?” The tired detective inspector asked.

“Nah, we’re good, you go home and get some sleep.” John said.

Greg nodded, said a quick goodbye and ducked out of the door, closing it behind him.

“Need me to bring these upstairs?” John asked.

Sherlock shook his head. “Come to bed.”

John frowned but nodded. He picked up the baby bag and followed the consulting detective upstairs, through the dark flat and into their bedroom. Sherlock placed Maeve on the bed, beside the sleeping cat that looked up as they entered but quickly settled back down to sleep. “I’ll get her ready for bed.

Sherlock nodded and left the room.

John looked down at the sleeping baby and sighed, he quickly stripped her of her clothes and dressed her into a sleepsuit, when he was finished he brushed his through her dark hair. It was already longer and curling at the ends, it was uncanny how much she looked like her father. John smiled. He tore his eyes away from her and quickly undressed, and redressed into a pair of loose bottoms and thin top. Sherlock appeared in the doorway, dressed in pyjamas with his phone in his hand. His fingers curled around the device.

“Are you going to tell me what’s wrong?” John asked, raising an eyebrow slightly and leaning over the bed to pick Maeve up, she frowned in her sleep but didn’t wake up, her hands scrunched into fists and she hit out blindly, fist connecting with his chin. He exhaled and rolled his eyes. “Thank you.”

Sherlock hovered in the doorway while John placed her in the Moses basket. Jade meowed and stood up, she jumped off the bed and sauntered off in the direction of the kitchen.

“Well,” John placed his hands on his hips.

“I saw someone at the airport.” Sherlock cleared his throat.

“Someone you knew?”

Sherlock nodded and looked at the ground.

John sat on the edge of the bed. “Who was it?”

“Celine.”

“Celine?” John repeated, eyebrows rising. “As in, Celine? Maeve’s mother?”

Sherlock nodded. “I…”

“Did she see you?”

“No.”

“Right, that’s why you were quiet then.”

Sherlock sighed and admitted. “I didn’t know what to do.”

John managed a small reassuring smile. “You still don’t.”

“No.”

“Do you want to look for her?”

“She abandoned my daughter,” the consulting detective snarled.

John could only nod.

“She never wanted Maeve. Why should I look for her?”

“Because you’re you and you hate not knowing something.” John stood up. “You don’t understand how anybody could be so heartless, how anybody could abandon their child, and you want to know, you want to know why she did it.”

Sherlock frowned at him.

“I’m not a complete idiot Sherlock, I can’t deduce an air pilot by their thumb but I know you.”

“I know you’re not an idiot.” He mumbled.

“You, a self-proclaimed ‘high functioning sociopath’ couldn’t leave a baby on a doorstep, couldn’t let your brother or parents take her,” he kept his voice low, eyes flicking to the Moses basket. “You took her in, yes you were scared, we both were but you took her in, you gave her a chance, you’re giving her everything.”

“She deserves everything.” Sherlock muttered.

“She deserves more than a mother that would abandon her. She is lucky to have you.”

“Us.” He corrected.

John faltered but nodded, “yes, us, she is lucky to have us, of course she is. And if you need to know what Celine is doing or why she did what she did, that’s ok. Do whatever you need.”

Sherlock seemed unsure but nodded and placed his phone on the bedside table. “I don’t want to see her.”

“No, that’s normal I think.”

“I don’t think I want to know.”

“Well, whatever you decide is fine.”

Sherlock nodded. “Bed?”

“Yes, and you can be little spoon tonight.”

“I’m taller than you,” Sherlock argued.

“Yes, but you need a hug, so you’re little spoon.”

“You’re ridiculous.” Sherlock said, but his smile gave him away.

“Yes, and you love me, so who’s more ridiculous?”

“Still you.”

“Shut up and lay down.”


	50. Chapter Fifty: One Hundred and Fifteen Days Old

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Maeve has started teething and Sherlock has disappeared, leaving John with a screaming baby.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WE'RE HALFWAY THROUGH THIS FIC!!!!! OH MY CROFT this is amazing, I can't believe it! No worry guys, fifty more chapters with more regular updates, I PROMISE because I know I've been crappy updating for the past few months. Enjoy my darlings.

A heat wave had hit London. A sweltering heat that offered no heat had descended, with hot sticky days that lasted well into the evenings, and no cool air for relief. A small desk fan rotated, spreading slightly cooler, stagnant air around the stuffy room and the windows were open as wide as possible. The curtains were drawn, leaving a small gap for light to travel into the room and in a desperate attempt to keep the room as cool as possible. And John, John Watson was in trouble.

The ex-army doctor was pacing the room in a feeble attempt to calm down a screaming Maeve Holmes. His leg hurt, and with every other step, he limped slightly. His thin white cotton t-shirt was sticking to his clammy skin and Maeve was grasping at the fabric as though she were holding on for dear life. She was red-faced, her skin blotchy from her cheeks to her stomach, and clammy. She wore only a nappy, her skin was hot to touch and she was crying into his ear. Her head resting on his shoulder, tears streaming down her face and wetting his top.

“Come on angel,” he tried, cooing as he ran one hand down her sticky back. “Stop crying, for Papa.”

Maeve hiccupped but didn’t stop crying.

“You’ll make yourself sick and then you won’t be happy.” He tried to reason. It always worked when Sherlock did that, or it usually did, it didn’t stop her from being awake all night crying, though. “Please, please stop crying.”

Mrs Hudson bounced up the stairs and into the flat looking disturbed. “Is there anything I can do?”

“I don’t think so,” He admitted, stopping on the spot and bouncing instead, rubbing his hand across her back in circles.

“What’s wrong with her?” She asked.

“We think she’s teething.” Mrs Hudson nodded. “I’m sorry about the noise.”

Mrs Hudson waved her hand, “I’m used to worse from you two.”

John snorted at that and admitted. “I don’t know what to do.”

“Has she eaten?”

“She wouldn’t eat it, she’s too hot.” John lamented.

Mrs Hudson looked lost.

“I’m going to put her in the bath, cool her down a bit, could you make me a bottle?” Mrs Hudson nodded eagerly. “Not too hot.”

“Where did Sherlock go?”

“I don’t know. He said he needed to get something and rushed out.” John admitted, stepping into the kitchen with Mrs Hudson a step behind him.

“That man.” She scolded.

 

* * *

 

 

John sat on the toilet, lid down, wearing only a pair of loose tartan boxers (which he usually reserved for sleeping) with Maeve sat on his lap, wearing nothing. He jiggled his good leg up and down, rocking her slightly as he watched the bath fill. There were bubbles, not a large amount and the sweet scent of her bubble bath filled the room.

“Going to have a bath with your Papa?” He asked, craning his neck to look at her.

Her blue eyes flicked up to him and she whined.

“Yes, I know sweetheart.” He cooed.

John sighed and stood up, bringing Maeve with him with one arm wrapped across her torso. She hiccupped and glanced around in confusion, her cries stopped for a second. She looked up at John, eyes wet and face covered in tears, dribble and snot, then looked back down at the bath. She hiccupped and started sobbing.

“Ok, that’s better than crying at least.” John said aloud, more to himself than anybody else.

He stepped into the bath, careful that he didn’t slip and then sat down, submerging the lower half of his body in the lukewarm water. He carefully dipped Maeve into the water and settled her to sit on his lap, using his chest as a support so that she was sat up, her hands immediately went to the water and for the first time she was silent.

“Yes, that’s better. A nice cool bath.” He ran his hand down her arm. She immediately grabbed his hand and craned her neck awkwardly to look at him.

They stayed like that for five minutes, enjoying the muffled silence of the bathroom, one hand linked and the other, holding her stomach to keep her upright while she played with the sponge with her free hand, fingers squeezing the pink sponge, as she watched, fascinated. Maeve was not crying anymore but every so often she released a soft whine or whimper in pain.

“Your daddy will be home soon,” he told her, keeping his voice soft.

Maeve gurgled.

“Aww, so you are listening to me.” He said, raising his eyebrow and leaning forward slightly to get a better look at your face. “I’m sure he’s gone to get you something to make you feel better.”

A soft tap on the door followed by the door opening a crack disturbed the silence. Maeve paid it no attention. John looked up and a voice said, “I’ve put the bottle on the side.”

“Thank you Mrs. Hudson.” John called back.

“I’ll be downstairs.”

The door closed again.

“Let’s wash your face.” John suggested and he took the other sponge, a yellow one that was floating around in the cool water, squeezed it, and dabbed at her messy face. Maeve jerked in surprised and pulled her face back, away from the sponge. John followed her and struggled to clean her face, she growled in warning and he dropped the sponge back into the water, “done, see that wasn’t so bad, was it?”

Maeve sneezed and looked affronted. He turned her around so that she was facing him, straddling one of his legs while he held her with two hands on her stomach.

“You are a drama queen, aren’t you?” He asked, sighed and dropping his back. “Just like your daddy.”

Maeve whined.

John levelled her with a look. “Your teeth hurt?”

She whined again.

“Yes,” he nodded and sat up straight, Maeve looked confused now that she was confronted with her papa’s torso but she quickly grabbed at the skin. “Let’s get you some lunch.”

After a few more minutes of splashing and enjoying the cold water. John stepped out of the bath and placed Maeve on the waiting towel, he wrapped her loosely so that she would get too hot and slipped off his wet boxers, replacing them with a towel. Then, he picked up Maeve in her towel and placed her against his chest.

There was a bump in the kitchen.

“I think Daddy’s back.”

Maeve grumbled against his chest.

He ran his hand down her towel covered back. “Yes, I know.”

“Sherlock,” He called out, opening the door and stepping out into the hot hallway. He craned his neck to look into the kitchen. Sherlock’s jacket was thrown carelessly onto the table and there were carrier bags littering the surface. He sighed and walked towards the kitchen.

Sherlock looked up as they stepped around the corner. He was stood on the opposite side of the table, hands on his hips and shirt sleeves rolled to his elbows. His white shirt was moist with sweat on his back and armpits, the fabric sticking to his lithe body. His hair was damp with perspiration and the curls sticking to the wet skin of his forehead.

“Where the hell have you been?” John asked, keeping his voice low as not to upset Maeve.

“I needed things,” he gestured wildly. His eyes narrowed. “She’s stopped crying.”

“Not for long, she hasn’t eaten since this morning.”

Sherlock frowned but nodded and picked up the bottle that Mrs Hudson had left.

“I’ll just put a nappy on her.” John forced a smile. He went into the bedroom, put some cream and a nappy on her but left her undressed, it was too warm for clothes. He quickly pulled on a pair of jeans and a pyjama top before walking back into the kitchen.

Sherlock handed him the bottle and John took it as he passed, and sat himself down in his chair. He shuffled Maeve so that she was resting in one arm and offered her the bottle. She hesitated but accepted it and started drinking. “So, where have you been?”

Sherlock cleared his throat and stepped around into the longue. “I got some supplies to help with the teething. Was she…how has she been??”

“Screaming.”

“I shouldn’t have left.”

“You should have told me where you were going.” John corrected.

Sherlock frowned. “I told you….”

“Talking to me while I’m asleep doesn’t count.”

“You weren’t asleep…maybe you…were you in the room?” Sherlock said, confused, brows furrowing.

“Right, well, you left me with her when she was inconsolable.” John looked down at the baby in his arms and popped the bottle out of her mouth, to slow her down slightly. “She’s barely eaten, she was screaming.”

“She’s not crying now. You calmed her.”

“Yes but that’s not the bloody point.” John offered the bottle back to Maeve, she eagerly accepted. “You can’t just go off on your own, what if something had happened? You have her” he nodded to the infant “to think of now.”

“I ju- I wanted to help her.” Sherlock cleared his throat and looked at the floor.

“Yes, but next time, a ‘John I’m going to the shops’ wouldn’t go amiss.”

“Sorry,” Sherlock shuffled his feet slightly. “That was…wrong of me, I will endeavour to do better.”

“Right, what did you get?” John said, satisfied.

Sherlock looked up at the bags on the table. “Numbing gel, teething pads and rings. Ice.”

“And you think it’s going to help?”

“Well, it stands to reason that something will.” Sherlock sniffed.

“Well, the cold bath did it momentarily but I’m not sure how much longer she’ll be…happy for.” John sighed and pulled the empty bottle away from Maeve. He wiped her lips with the pad of his finger.

“Right,” Sherlock nodded towards her. “May I?”

John put the bottle down and picked Maeve up, offering her to the consulting detective. Sherlock took her and pulled her against his chest, her head resting on his shoulder. He started rubbing her back in practiced circular motions. He titled his head and kissed behind her ear. “She’s hot.”

“There’s a heatwave.”

Sherlock glared at him.

“Don’t get moody with me because you’re hot.”

“I’m not _moody_.”

“Well, irritated or whatever. It’s hot, we’re all hot.” John dropped his head back.

“I just-” Sherlock started as Mrs Hudson ascended the stairs with a ‘yoo-hoo boys’.

Sherlock turned to face their landlady. She levelled him with a look and put her hands on her hips. “You. Leaving John like that.”

“I went for supplies.” Sherlock muttered.

“Maeve was beside herself.”

Sherlock closed his eyes and continued to rub his daughter’s back. “John has been in far worse situations, he is fully equipped to deal with an upset infant.”

John couldn’t help but smile at that.

“Yes, but you shouldn’t have left him.” Mrs Hudson scolded, hitting his arm as she stepped into the room and walked into the kitchen. She immediately started packing away the shopping that Sherlock had brought.

“The teething rings need to go in the fridge,” Sherlock called to her, stepping closer to the kitchen and craning his neck to watch her. “Put the pink one in a bowl of ice.”

Maeve burped on his shoulder and he patted her back lightly before continuing the rubbing motion.

“Is your brother visiting?” She asked.

“Later.” Sherlock muttered and pulled Maeve away from his chest, he twisted her around and held her in a seated position, one arm across her torso and the other underneath her bum, her back pressed against his stomach. He held her for a moment in front of the small desk fan. Maeve’s nose scrunched and she blinked, the breeze catching her eyelashes. She whined but he kept her there.

“Hot and teething, what are we going to do with you?” Mrs Hudson asked as she stepped into the room, placing the bowl of ice on the small table beside John.

“One problem at a time, keep her cool.” Sherlock responded, pulling her away from the fan and sitting himself down in his chair. “Then deal with the teething issue.” He gesture towards the bowl.

John picked it up and lent forward. Sherlock stuck one hand in the bowl, submerging his fingers in the ice for a few moment before pulling them out. He shook his hand slightly and then offered it to Maeve, pressing his forefinger against the seal of her lips. She hesitated but opened her mouth and he probed her gums, running the pad of his fingers over them. He announced after a few seconds. “There aren’t any teeth cutting through the gums.”

“No?” John perked up. “It is a little early for teeth.”

Sherlock hummed. Maeve gurgled around his finger. He pulled his finger out of her mouth and plucked the pink teething ring out from the ice, wiping one end on his shirt, before offering it to her. She eyed it suspiciously. Sherlock sighed and placed it to her lips, she opened her mouth slightly.

“You need to open your mouth a little wider,” John told her with a grin.

Maeve’s eyes flicked to him and then back to the pink teething ring that was resting at her lips. Her eyes crossed. John snorted. Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Open your mouth for daddy, yes.”

Maeve opened her mouth and Sherlock pushed the teething ring into her mouth. She grabbed at his hand and started chewing on the cold ring, her expression a mixture of emotions before settling on ‘this is probably ok.’ Her eyes flicked to John in a ‘look Papa’ way.

“Yeah, that’s better.” John put the bowl of ice back on the table and sat back in his chair, relieved. “Hopefully she’ll have a sleep soon.”

“That’s better.” Sherlock hummed in agreement and kissed the top of her head. His eyes flicked to John. “Your leg hurts.”

“Yes, the heat.” John nodded, tapping his thigh. “And stress.”

Sherlock hummed. “You should lay down.”

“It’s a sauna in there.”

“I’ll get the fan out.”

“Later.” John promised.

Sherlock nodded and kissed the top of Maeves head again.

 

* * *

  

Maeve slept for an hour. A beautiful undisturbed hour and woke up with a red face, drool running down her chin and tears in her eyes. Sherlock picked her up just as she started crying and placed her against his chest, rocking his body side to side. “Shhhh.” He hushed as he walked into the living room.

“Want to try the gel?” John asked, looking up from his laptop.

“Yes,” Sherlock nodded.

John plucked one of three gels from the table and extended his hand to Sherlock. The consulting detective eyed him pointedly. John cleared his throat, “well…”

“You need to taste it.” Sherlock explained as though it were the simplest thing in the world. He pulled Maeve away from his shoulder and shifted her so that her back was pressed against his chest, supported by his arm across her torso. She blinked tiredly at John.

“Why?” John frowned.

Sherlock blinked a few times, staring at John as he did so and when it became obvious that John was clueless, he scoffed. “If you don’t like the taste, I’m hardly going to put it in my daughter’s mouth.”

“So I’m your guinea pig,” John said more to himself, pulling his hand back and unscrewing the cap of the teething gel. “Charming.”

“Better not to upset her further.”

John nodded in agreement, dabbed some of the clear gel onto his finger and put it in his mouth. He licked away the gel and pulled out his wet finger. “What flavour is it supposed to be?”

“Banana.” Sherlock enunciated, eyeing the blonde dubiously.

“It tastes sort-of banana-ry,” John told him. “Just artificial.”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes slightly but held his finger out. John squeezed a pea sized amount of the gel onto his forefinger and watched as Sherlock rubbed the gel over Maeve’s gums as she frowned, her nose crinkled up and mouth trying, and failing because of the finger in her mouth, to draw into a thin line.

“She doesn’t look impressed.” John observed.

Sherlock glared at him and withdrew his finger. He craned his neck to watch her expression. Maeve opened and closed her mouth a few times, her frown deepening before whining loudly. She licked her lips. He put the finger in his own mouth and licked it clean, brow furrowing slightly at the taste.

“She seems ok,” John screwed the cap back on the tube and put it on the table. “Is she hot?”

Sherlock used the back of his free hand to check her temperature, pressing it gently against her forehead. “A little clammy.” He announced and walked over to the desk fan. He sat on the edge of the coffee table, moving Maeve onto his lap and waited until the fan blew cold air over them. Maeve jerked and looked up at him, gurgling. “Shhh.” He hushed gently.

Maeve craned her neck to look up at her daddy and gurgled. Then she looked back at the fan.

“Yes, it’s a fan.” He told her. Maeve looked at it thoughtfully.

Maeve gurgled again.

John smiled from the doorway. “Someone’s feeling better.”

Sherlock hummed. “Eliminate the pain, eliminate the problem.”

“Yes,” John nodded. “It is that simple with babies.”

“It’s only temporary,” Sherlock looked over his shoulder at the blonde.

“Yes, but a temporary solution is still a solution.”

Sherlock frowned in disbelief. It sounded ridiculous but there was some logic to it. “But the solution will run out and we’ll be left with a screaming baby.”

“Yes, well,” John cleared his throat. “It’s all part of being a parent.”

 

* * *

 

 

Mycroft paused in the threshold, halted by the sight of the flat in complete disarray, more so than usual. The chairs had been pushed to the fireplace and the coffee table moved onto the sofa. A blanket was on the floor with a mountain of pillows. John was in his chair, watching his boyfriend and daughter with a fond expression. Sherlock was lain on his back, his shirt open, pale chest glistening. Maeve was beside him on her front wearing only a nappy, her eyes fixed on her daddy, hands fisted in his shirt. She was gurgling enthusiastically, dribble running down her face.

“Has the heat gone to your head?” He asked in a bored tone. He held a small white gift bag in his left hand.

“Has it gone to yours?” Sherlock raised his eyebrows and craned his neck to look at his elder brother.

“This is my usual hour,” Mycroft sniffed and stepped into the flat. He placed the bag on his brother’s chest.

Sherlock frowned and held the bag steady. He nodded towards Maeve. “Your niece.”

Mycroft rolled his eyes and crouched down, he plucked Maeve up and held her for a moment at arm’s length. Her eyes scanned over his body and settled on his face, lips pulling back into a gummy smile. “Hello darling.” He greeted, pulling her closer to his body.

“She’s teething so I’d watch your jacket.” John warned.

Mycroft looked at his shoulder and assured him, standing up. “It’s not a problem.”

“A little bit of dribble never hurt anybody,” Sherlock muttered more to himself than anything.

“Are you going to open it?” John asked gesturing towards the white gift bag.

Sherlock sat up and reached inside the bag. He pulled out a small pink jewellery bag and untied it, inside there was a small necklace and bracelet made of small amber stones. “Baltic amber.”

John frowned. “Teething necklace, I always get parents asking about them but I don’t know much about how they work.”

“In theory,” Sherlock announced, running his fingers over the amber beads. “The baby wears the necklace and their body heat triggers the release of oils that contains succinic acid, and when the oil is absorbed, it has an analgesic effect on swollen and sore gums. Though there is no medical proof.” He said, shooting Mycroft a surprised look.

“Worth a try, brother mine.” Mycroft managed a tight smile at that.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow but shrugged. He sprung to his feet in a moment and held out the necklace. Maeve eyed him suspiciously. Sherlock gave her a stern ‘do as you’re told’ look and fastened the necklace around her neck. It was tight, not tight enough that she would choke herself with it, but tight enough that she wouldn’t catch it on anything, hanging about an inch or so under her chin. She tried and failed to look at the necklace. Sherlock took pity on her and showed her the bracelet. Her eyes widened curiously and she reached out for the bracelet, small fingers catching the small beads. She looked up at Sherlock, as though for permission, he smiled and she continued to finger the bracelet, eyes flicking back to watch.

“You look awful,” Mycroft said after a moment. An observation. Not a criticism.

Sherlock’s expression dropped briefly before he sighed. “Yes, well, babies, brother mine.”

Mycroft recognised the imitation and smiled at him. He kissed the top of Maeve’s head, lips lingering on the spot. Sherlock pried the bracelet away from her, kissing her fingers as apology and fastened the bracelet around her wrist, Maeve looked at it, frowning before smiling up at him.

Sherlock smiled back at her.

“Yes, all happy now,” John said. Maeve gurgled and dropped her head onto Mycroft’s shoulder. He ran a hand over her head, through her hair and she moved her head into the motion. John snorted. “She’s like a cat. Speaking of which, where is the cat?”

“Maeve’s room, it’s the coolest in the house.” Sherlock answered, stepping away from his brother and sitting on the coffee table, dropping his head into his hands. He scrubbed his hands over his face and ran them through his hair, pushing the curls out of his face, they sprang up at awkward angels.

“I suggest you get some sleep while you can,” Mycroft told them. John frowned and Sherlock looked up at him. “You are better with sleep. Rest, I’ll take care of her.”

“And what are you going to do?” John asked, surprised.

“I’m sure we’ll find something to do.” Mycroft said, watching Maeve.

 

* * *

 

Maeve was absorbed in her bee toy, running her small fingers over the soft yellow and black fabric, her eyes flicking from the bee to her uncle as she babbled loudly. Mycroft hummed in acknowledgement and continued to bounce the chair with his sock covered foot as he read through the file on the desk. He looked up for a moment and then down at her, his mouth pulling into a thin smile, and went back to work. Anthea peaked up from her laptop, brown eyes flicking from her boss to the baby in her bouncy chair.

Anthea cleared her throat, “she’s getting bigger.”

Mycroft hummed again. “Yes.”

“And her hair longer.” She rested her chin on her hand and watched Maeve. “It’s getting curlier.”

Mycroft nodded, not looking up from his work. Anthea sighed. Mycroft frowned but did not look up from his work, “What is it, my dear?”

“It’s just, I don’t know how you focus on work when she’s around.”

“You were doing work not a moment ago.” He pointed out, smiling. He looked up.

Anthea rolled her eyes. “Doesn’t she make you…broody?”

“I have far too many people to worry about already.” Mycroft sighed, closed the file and looked down at Maeve. She looked up at him, flashing him a half smile. He couldn’t help but smile in response.

“So, no babies in your future?” Anthea quipped.

“One.” He nodded at Maeve.

“Yes, well,” Anthea shrugged, “there are worse choices.”

Maeve kicked her legs excitedly and babbled. Mycroft raised an eyebrow at her, “yes.”

Maeve babbled again, this time louder.

“You are being disruptive,” Mycroft sighed.

“Better than crying,” Anthea plucked up the teething ring and offered it to her.

Maeve eyed it curiously before accepting it, taking it from her and putting it in her mouth. She chewed on it, eyes flicking up to Mycroft and Anthea as though to check that they were watching.

“Yes, we can see you.” He assured her.

“She is quite convincing.” Anthea said, clapping her hands together.

“Are you broody?” Mycroft asked, curious and uncomfortable.

“She makes me broody,” She argued, frowning at the table. “It’s her rosy cheeks and little hands.”

“Yes, she’s adorable, we are well aware.” Sherlock yawned as he entered the room, his eyes flicking over Anthea and Mycroft in a matter of seconds before landing on the back of the bouncy chair. He wore a pair of thin pyjamas, the top inside out and his hair was damp with sweat and sticking to his forehead.

Mycroft reached inside his waistcoat pocket and glanced at his pocket watch. He frowned. “Two hours, I expected you to sleep longer brother mine.”

“Dull.” Sherlock yawned again, smothering it against the back of his hand. He stepped towards Maeve and placed his head in her view, she looked up and smiled around her teething ring. “Yes, hello.”

Maeve gurgled.

He unstrapped her from the chair and picked her up, twisting her mid-air so that she was facing the right way and placed her on his side, legs either side of his torso, her head at the same height as his. She dropped the teething ring and reached out, grabbing his hair in her fists and pulling his face impossibly close to hers.

“Yes, hello darling.” He said, gently prying her hands out of his hair and kissed each one.

Maeve gurgled loudly. Sherlock rolled his eyes and twisted on the spot. Maeve shrieked in delight.  

Anthea packed away her laptop away and rose to her feet. “I’ll return to the office.”

Mycroft smiled at her and nodded. “And what, pray tell, are your plans for the rest of the day, brother mine?”

Sherlock shrugged. “No doubt we will be staying in, in a bid to avoid the bustle of London and this heat.”

“Yes, it is rather hot. Have you thought about putting clothes on her?” He asked, gesturing towards his niece with a raised eyebrow.

Anthea smiled to herself, waved to Maeve and then ducked out of the room.

“Too hot for clothes,” Sherlock sniffed.

Mycroft frowned, looking appalled. “Too much information.”

“Yes, well, we are in the midst of a heatwave.”

“I’d noticed,” Mycroft quipped.

Sherlock shrugged one shoulder and sat on the arm of John’s chair. Maeve shifted against him but remained calm. She sighed against him. “I’m sure you are eager to return to your air conditioned home.”

“Quite,” Mycroft inhaled deeply and ran his thumb and forefinger over his hot brow. “But work calls.”

“Doesn’t it always,” Sherlock smirked.

“I suppose, I’ll leave you to it.”

“You don’t want to spend any more time with your niece?”

“I want nothing more, but, duty calls,” Mycroft sighed and rose to his feet. He looked at Maeve and lowered his voice, “a little bad weather and the country ceases to run smoothly.”

“Does it ever?” Sherlock asked.

Mycroft raised an eyebrow. “Quite.”

 

* * *

 

“Feel better?” Sherlock asked as John emerged from the shower. He had a towel around his hips, on his shoulders and nothing else.

“Hmmm, yes, much.” He managed a smile.

“You’re not limping,” he deduced.

“No, it feels better.”

Sherlock nodded. “Good.”

“She’s calmer.” John nodded towards Maeve.

“Yes,” Sherlock ran his hand down her back. She was wearing only a thin white bodysuit with no arms or legs.

“Do you want me to put her to bed?”

“I thought I’d keep her up longer,” Sherlock said absentmindedly, “ensure she sleep through the night.”

John nodded. “Good idea, dinner?”

“There’s some take out in the fridge.”

“You ordered take out?”

“Hmmm” Sherlock hummed in response.

“And what are you going to do for the rest of the day?”

Sherlock shrugged and kissed the top of Maeve’s head.


	51. One Hundred and Thirty Days Old

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock decides it's time to try real food, a.k.a. baby rice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This would have been done quicker but my laptop shut down (while on charge) as I was finishing this. Thank you for your continued love and support, it means the world to me.   
> I'll be back at uni soon, and hopefully, I will be updating regularly but you know how it is, I always get a bit off with updating when close to deadlines or particularly stressed. I will try my best to be better for you all.  
> I hope you're all enjoying the new series as well, it's amazing. 
> 
> And ... what was the last thing???? Oh yes, I am planning a new fic that hopefully I'll be able to start soon. It's going to be about Mycroft and I'm super excited about it!!!!
> 
> I didn't realise how short this chapter was until just now. I'm sorry. I promise the next chapter ill be longer and we'll meet an old friend...Victor Trevor.

 

It was fascinating how much Maeve had grown in the space of four months. One Hundred and Thirty days to be exact. She was bigger, a few sizes, her skin less red and pale, like his own. Her hair, once thin, was thicker and curling at the end, the longest strands reaching a centimetre and a half down her forehead, or would if the strands weren’t curly. Her cheeks were round and rosy, and her eyes still a vivid blue, not yet settled into their natural colour, though he had no doubt they would match his own, it was obvious.

She was sat in the middle of the floor, on her colourful tummy time mat surrounded by small soft toys that were becoming a bit of a collection. She wore a pair of blue joggers and matching jumper with white hearts on them. Her hands were reaching out and running over each one intently, her eyes flicking up to Sherlock, and back to the toys, checking that he was watching her.

“Yes, daddy’s watching you.” He assured her, sat with his legs crossed in front of her, a notebook perched on one knee with a pen inside the pages. “Which toy do you want?”

Maeve gurgled in response.

“Use your words darling.” He said with a raised eyebrow. It was too early for words, as John kept telling him, but there was no harm in encouraging her to speak.

Maeve babbled a string of ‘d’ and ‘b’ sounds and reached for the small snowy owl toy.

“Yes, I like that one too.” He admitted, closing the notepad with one hand while reaching towards her with the other, running his fingers over her small hand and the toy in it. “It reminds me of your uncle,” he frowned, “foolish, I know.”

Maeve babbled in response. He nodded, accepting that as an agreement and threw the notebook back onto his chair. He drew his legs round underneath his body and sat on them, placing his hands on his knees. “Now, what shall we talk about today?” He asked.

Maeve looked up at him curiously, mouth open.

“Shall we talk about…Papa? Or Dickens? Or Bees? What do you think?” Maeve didn’t answer. “Well, Papa’s at work, no doubt curing the world of snotty noses and writing sick notes.” He sniffed. “Bleak House is arguably the most profound of Dickens work and well, the bees must be saved at all costs, they are dreadfully interesting and incredibly intelligent. We would not be alive if not for the bees.”

Maeve watched his with an expression of awe, mouth wide open and eyes fixed on him.

“Yes, it’s all dreadfully interesting. Shall we go for a walk?” Maeve babbled. “Yes.”

Sherlock plucked her up, his hands under her arms, and pulled her towards his chest. “Maybe Papa will get a coffee with us, yes? Would you like that?”

He picked up the small owl toy from the floor and handed it to her. She took it in both her hand and smoothed it against her face which she simultaneously dropped her head to rest on his shoulder. He walked to the bedroom and picked up the small white nike trainers, that John called stupid, and then back into the kitchen, pausing in the threshold. He sat her on the side, keeping his eyes on her as he put on her shoes, wrestling them onto her small feet. Jade jumped onto the side, meowing loudly, and rubbed herself against Maeve, who in response dropped her toy and clutched at her fur and dropped her head onto the cat. Maeve meowed loudly and continued to rub her face against Maeve’s, purring as she did so.

When he was done he picked up Maeve and his coat, sending a slightly apologetic look to the cat, and pulled it on, shifting Maeve from one arm to the other. He left his scarf untied around his neck and plucked up the baby bag from the table as he left the room, walking down the stairs.

Mrs Hudson peaked out of her door as he stopped in the hallway. “Where are you off to?”

“A morning stroll,” Sherlock answered with a small smile.

The pram was already set up in the corner. He placed the baby bag around the handle and Maeve in the seat which had been altered so that she was sat up with a bar across her, supporting her. Maeve’s nose wrinkled as he strapped her in but he shushed her with a gentle tap to the nose. He put a blanket over her legs and handed her the small owl toy back. She smiled at it and held it close.

“It’s a bit nippy outside,” Mrs Hudson told him. “I’d wrap up.”

Sherlock nodded.

“Will you be back soon?”

“Without a doubt, just getting some fresh air.”

“Well, behave.”

Sherlock frowned. “Me or her?”

“Both of you.” She smirked and ducked back into her flat.

Sherlock sighed and gestured towards the door. “Shall we?”

Maeve gurgled in response.

Sherlock nodded

 

* * *

 

The doctor’s surgery was, as predicted, full to the brim of people with kids with snotty noses and bloody knees. Sherlock sniffed. He was lent against the wall, one hand on the handle of the pram and the other on his phone, surfing through his emails. Maeve was almost asleep, her eyes drooping and lips parted, a thin line of drool running down her chin. His eyes flicked to her and then back to his phone.

“Can I help you?” The new receptionist asked, leaning over the desk.

_Single. Young. Desperate._

Sherlock sniffed again. “Yes, Doctor Watson.”

“He’s with a patient now, I’ll let him know you’re here Mr …”

“Holmes.” He supplied, flashing a fake smile.

“Mr Holmes, are you here for you or your daughter?” she asked, clearing her throat delicately.

“Daughter.” He offered.

“Doctor Watson really is our best doctor.” She beamed, sitting back in her chair.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes and pushed himself off the wall, quickly pocketing his phone and rounding on the desk, placing his elbows on it. “Yes.”

“Do you know him? Personally?”

“Yes.” He answered, tilting his head to one side.

 _Late twenties. String of casual lovers. Cheating boyfriends. Dyed blonde hair. New Lipstick and blouse, trying to impress someone…not someone, John. Crush. Likes older men. Daddy issues._ Pathetic.

“He’s pretty busy but I think we can squeeze you in.” she promised, smirking as she picked up the phone. “I’ll call in, see if he can see you.”

“Tell him his boyfriend and daughter are here.” He suggested as he flashed her a smile. “It may speed up the process.”

The reception startled and almost dropped the phone, jaw dropping. She cleared her throat and looked at the desk as she dialled trying and failing to look professional as her cheeks went red, after a moment she spoke, her voice far less confident than before. “Doctor Watson, there’s a mister Holmes here to see you…yes, I’ll send him right through.”

Sherlock smirked and looked down at Maeve, she was still fighting off sleep, her eyes glassy and fixed on him. He ran a hand down her cheek and quickly wiped the trail of dribble from her chin, wiping it on the blanket as he pulled it higher onto her lap.

The receptionist cleared her throat and stood up, eyes flicking over Sherlock and the pram critically. “Room 2.”

Sherlock said nothing. He pushed the pram with one hand through the doorway and into the corridor. He stopped outside the second door as it opened. A woman - clearly wanting sleeping pills to drown out the sound of her children and adulterous husband - stepped out, eyes raking over him and the pram before she walked past him. John was stood at the door, left hand on the doorknob, smiling. “What are you doing here?”

“Morning stroll,” Sherlock offered.

Sherlock pushed the pram inside the room and turned to watch John close the door. “Yeah right, bored?”

“The receptionist has a _crush_ on you,” Sherlock ignored the question, “I se _t_ her straigh _t_.”

“Right, should I be expecting tears?” John asked, shoulders sagging slightly.

Sherlock shrugged. “I merely informed her that I was your partner and Maeve your daughter.”

“Yes, she’s new,” John nodded and peered into the pram at the almost sleeping Maeve. He smiled at her, crouching, and ran his hand over her head. “She never gave me a chance to tell her, too busy prattling on about herself.”

“Well, she knows now.” Sherlock picked an invisible piece of flint off his jacket.

“Don’t get grumpy. People are allowed to have crushes on me.”

“As long as they know you are mine,” Sherlock mumbled more to himself than anything.

“You had a crush on me too, once upon a time.” John reminded him, glancing up and smirking.

“I love you, there’s a difference John.”

“Yes,” John agreed, standing up straight. “I love you too, you idiot.”

Sherlock didn’t’ smile at that but he visibly relaxed, his shoulders lowering slightly.

John looked at him expectantly. “Are you going to kiss me or what?”

Sherlock smiled at that and lent down slightly, kissing him softly on the lips before pulling back, leaving a few millimetres between their lips.

“Good morning.” John smiled, eyes lighting up. “I missed you.”

“You’ve been gone three hours.” Sherlock pointed out.

“You could have just said that you missed me to,” John kissed him softly again, keeping it chaste.

John looked at John’s lips and admitted, keeping his voice soft. “I missed you.”

“What are you two going to do for the rest of the day then?”

“Solid foods.”

John frowned and moved his head back slightly. He repeated, “Solid foods.”

“Yes,” Sherlock cleared his throat. “Maeve is able to support her own head, she often has the motion of chewing, and a growing appetite and significant weight gain within the past weeks.”

“So, baby rice?”

Sherlock nodded. “It makes sense.”

“Yes, a logical decision.” John smiled. “So, you’re going out to buy baby rice?”

“We came to see you,” he clarified. “We’ll pick up the baby rice on the way home. Coffee?”

“I need to get back to work,” he ignored the way Sherlock pouted, “the quicker I get through my patients, the quicker I’ll be home.”

 

* * *

 

Sherlock offered the first spoonful to Maeve. She frowned in confusion, eyes flicking from the spoon to his face and then back to the spoon. The mixture was warm and gloopy, an off-white shade with a rather boring smell, the same as the powdered milk he brought for her. Maeve was sat in her highchair, a white round contraption that was top of the range and looked vaguely like a seat from an sci-fi movie made in the 80s.

 _“Why are we doing this?”_ Mycroft asked, his voice tinged with annoyance and vague boredom.

“Skype?” Sherlock sighed and looked down at the screen that was at the fair end of the table, pointed at him and Maeve, giving the government official a good view of them both from the laptop. He was sat at his desk, elbows on the desk and hands clasped together. He looked irritated.

_“I do have…things to do.”_

“Countries to run.” Sherlock said to Maeve.

“ _Sherlock_.” Mycroft sounded irritated.

“It’s an important milestone.” Sherlock sniffed and placed the spoon back into the small pale yellow, plastic bowl. The spoon was small, soft and made of a similar colour yellow plastic.

 _“Fine.”_ Mycroft sighed and unclasped his hands, laying his hands on the desk. “ _But will she be eating in the foreseeable future, I do have a dinner meeting.”_

“Yes, she’s just, it’s new.” Sherlock mumbled. He picked up the spoon again and scooped out some of the gloopy formula, wiping the back of the spoon on the edge of the bowl. He lent forward in his chair and offered her the spoon again. He asked, “For daddy?”

Maeve considered it and after a few moments opened her mouth a little. Sherlock pressed the spoon against her lips, softly, she opened them a tad wider and he pushed the spoon further into her mouth. He paused, letting her come closer to him, leaning her head forward. Her lips closed around the spoon and she frowned.

“ _Oh.”_ Mycroft released involuntarily, leaning closer to the camera.

Maeve’s eyes flicked up to Sherlock and then back to the spoon in her mouth, eyes crossing slightly. Her expression shifted slightly, still unsure. Sherlock pulled the spoon out, carefully, slowly, dipping it to ensure that she got all of the baby rice and held the spoon in the air while he watched her intently. Her mouth beginning the chewing motions, not that she really needed to chew it, and she looked vaguely pleased with herself.

“Yes,” Sherlock muttered. His eyes flicking over her. “Is it nice?”

 _“Are you telling me you didn’t taste it?”_ Mycroft asked, curiously.

“Of course I tasted it,” Sherlock snapped in response, not taking his eyes off of Maeve. “What do you think?”

Maeve finished the chewing motion and swallowed. She considered it for a moment before opening her mouth again in a silent demand for more. Sherlock chuckled, a rich, deep sound that echoed while Mycroft snorted.

_“Demanding little thing.”_

“Quite.” Sherlock agreed.

“ _Wonder where she gets that from,”_ Mycroft smirked through the camera.

Sherlock ignored the comment and scooped up another spoonful for her, offering it to her lips, she opened her mouth wider and accepted the spoon, pulling the gloopy mixture into her mouth again.

 _“This has been…enlightening.”_ Mycroft admitted.

Sherlock’s eyes flicked to the screen. “I’ll send you the brand and recipe.”

 _“See that you do,”_ Mycroft said and with one last glance at his niece, he ended the skype call.

“Your papa is going to be so proud of you,” Sherlock told Maeve as she swallowed her second mouthful of baby rice.


	52. One Hundred and Forty One Days Old

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Victor Trevor is here.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, I'm so sorry this chapter has taken so long. It's the usual excuses I'm afraid, I finished university which meant finishing and handing in my dissertation and then completing two more assignments on top of that, I was crazy busy and then, writer's block. I hate that excuse but it's true, I've been staring at this chapter for so long, trying to finish it. So, I'm sorry, this chapter was supposed to be longer. 
> 
> Expect more regular updates from now on, like the good old days because this fic is just over half-way through and I would really love to finish it at some point. 
> 
> Once again, I'm very sorry it took so long. I hope you enjoy it. And, if you ever want to bug me to update please follow me on social media and send a polite nudge.

“We have a client,” Sherlock announced, stepping back from the window and over the bouncy chair by his feet, somehow managing it with the grace of a cat, and gliding towards his chair. He sat down, slipped his shoes on and steepled his hands beneath his chin, his customary pose to greet clients with.

“Right, do you want me to take her upstairs?” John scratched his head.

“That won’t be necessary,” Sherlock smiled, “besides I’d be lost without my blogger.”

John smiled to himself and nodded. He waved at Maeve, she was at Sherlock’s feet, between the two chairs, lain on her front across her tummy time mat surrounded by toys and the cat, who was sleeping despite being grabbed occasionally by the curious infant.

A customary knock on the door followed by voices signalled the arrival of their client. John remained on his feet, ready to greet them while Sherlock stared at the door, eagerly awaiting the next case. There were footsteps and the client appeared in the doorway, he was tall and pale with dark hair that glowed with a reddish tinge in the sunlight, which filtered through the windows. He was dressed in a grey suit with a white shirt and thin black tie. His grey eyes flicked over the flat, John and the baby on the floor, he smiled and then finally looked at Sherlock. “Sherlock.” He greeted in a fond tone.

Sherlock smiled up at him and nodded in greeting. “Victor.”

“You must be Doctor John Watson,” Victor greeted, focusing his attention on John.

“Yes,” John returned with a closed mouth smile. Friendly but professional. He shook his hand.

“I’m a fan of your blog.” The newcomer admitted.

“Thank you.” John said, stepping back to allow him into the room.

Victor smiled and stepped into the room. Sherlock rose to his feet, careful of the baby and cat on the floor, and buttoned up his jacket as he did so, he flashed a smile and offered his hand.

Victor shook his hand. “Sherlock Holmes, it’s been a while.”

“Fifteen years.”

“And now you’ve got a little sprog.” Victor craned his neck to get a better view of the baby on the floor. She was on her front, head turned to the side towards Sherlock’s chair, both of her hands grasped in the cat’s fur.

“Yes,” Sherlock stepped backwards and looked down at his daughter.

She was wearing a simple pair of light grey, almost white, trousers with bees on and a matching top that said ‘the bee’s knees’. An outfit John had brought but Sherlock wholeheartedly approved of.

“I never expected to see you with a kid,” Victor admitted, eyes flicking back to the consulting detective.

“That makes two of us,” The consulting detective admitted with a lopsided smile in Maeve’s direction.

“Surprised she’s being so quiet.” John chipped in, stepping around the two taller men and sitting in his chair.

“Sit.” Sherlock nodded towards the chair.

Victor stepped back and sat down in the waiting chair. “So, the years treated you well.”

“And you.”

“Yes but look at you, a consulting detective.”

“Yes.” Sherlock knelt down, his back to Victor and eyes flicking over Maeve in a precursory check.

“I didn’t think you’d actually do it, create your own job.” Victor chuckled.

“Well,” the consulting detective rose to his feet and sat in his chair, unbuttoning his jacket with one hand as he did so, “other jobs are dull.”

John snorted.

Victor smirked. “Yes.”

“And now you’re here.” John said with a small smile.

“Yes,” he nodded. “I’m sorry, I really couldn’t imagine it before, I’d seen it in the papers of course, but you, a father. It’s extraordinary, really Sherlock, I still can’t quite believe it. You always did surprise me.” Sherlock said nothing, merely bowed his head slightly. “I’m sorry, I’m prattling on.”

“Its fine,” John assured him.

“So, what’s her name then?”

“Maeve.” Sherlock answered.

Victor nodded. “And she’s good?”

“She’s a baby.” Sherlock frowned.

Victor laughed and John snorted. The blonde added. “She’s well behaved.”

“That’s good, sleepless nights?”

“A few.” John answered.

“This is all very…interesting.” Sherlock faked a smile and reminded him. “But you are here for a reason.”

“Yes,” Victor nodded and looked down at his hands.

“You’re being followed.”

Victor looked up, amazed and he admitted with a tone of awe. “You never cease to amaze me.”

Sherlock raised his eyebrows and pulled his lips into a thin line, a look of fake modesty that said he wasn’t at all surprised. Maeve babbled loudly on the floor. Sherlock’s eyes narrowed and dropped to the floor. “Yes, thank you, that’s quite enough, daddy’s working, so quiet…please.”

Maeve babbled again in response.

Victor looked far too amused at the situation.

The cat opened her eyes and craned her neck to look at the infant.

“You’ve woken the cat up now.” John told her off gently, leaning down in his chair.

Maeve squealed.

“Maeve.” Sherlock warned. She babbled again, this time quieter, and lifter her head up. Sherlock turned to Victor. “If you would, your case.”

“Right, well, I guess it started a few months ago.” Maeve babbled again. Sherlock sighed, and he smiled but continued. “That’s when I met Emily. She modelled for me.”

“Modelled?” John asked, notebook and pen poised and read.

“Yes, I’m an art curator.”

“And you paint, as well?”

“So Emily modelled for a painting.”

“Yes,” Victor nodded. “A series of paintings and sketches.”

John nodded and jotted something down. Maeve babbled again. “So Emily?”

Victor continued, “She’s an art student, third year at UAL. I gave a talk about careers in art, something I was roped into, she was very interested, came up to me after the talk with lots of questions. I had time, so we went for a coffee. She mentioned that she wanted real experience in the industry, I gave her some names, and some tips for when she finished her degree.” He sighed. “I also mentioned a new project I was working on, nothing too exciting, just life drawing, a study of the human form. She was keen to volunteer. I gave her my number, and she sat for me the following week. We did a few sittings, nothing serious but I think I gave her the wrong impression.”

“She thought you were interest in her.”

“Yes, common misconception I’m afraid. I’ve been told I can be quite…focused when painting. Apparently, she misunderstood and thought I was interested in her.”

“And you weren’t? Interested that is.” John said with a small smile.

“No. She’s a lovely girl but still very young.”

“What happened next?”

“Well, she became rather bold in her pursuance of me.”

“How bold?”

“It started innocence enough, asking me for a drink or coffee. Then, she’d just turn up.”

“Where?”

“My favourite bars and restaurants, the supermarket. A few times she’s come to my house.”

“When?”

 “In the evenings mostly, after work, sometimes I’d come home and she’d be on my doorstep. Other times she’d come over in the middle of the night.”

“Did you contact the police?”

“No.” Victor admitted with a small sad smile. “I have private security system.”

Maeve squealed again.

John managed a smile at that, eyes flicking to her. “A private security system?”

“Yes, something my father had installed for me a few years back. Alarms and such.”

“Did you confront her? Tell her you weren’t interested?”

“Yes, it was done in the most delicate way possible. But she still lingers and well, I have a sneaking suspicion she’s trying to get into my house.”

“And, why would she do that?” John asked, clearing his throat as Maeve babbled again to herself.

Sherlock had adopted his customary ‘I’m listening to a client’, his chin resting on his thumb and index finger pressed against the side of his face, though the faint movement of his eyes suggested that he was more than a little distracted by Maeve’s interruptions.

“She’s too persistent. I sometimes work from home, it’s where I think best, paint.” Victor admitted.

Maeve growled in annoyance.

“You’re under the impression that she’s attempting to access your house for your work.”

Victor gave a slow nod. “I have no idea whether she’s pursing me or my work. I tend to deal with very expensive exhibits, it’s entirely possible, I think.”

“And you need our help to prove it?”

Victor nodded once. “Do you think you can help?”

John sniffed and looked at Sherlock. He was processing. His eyes closed. And Maeve, well Maeve was now babbling in a steady stream of ‘d’ sounding syllables, dribble running down her chin onto the mat beneath her. The cat, awake but blinking slowly, was paying her no attention except to swish her tail near Maeve’s face every other second. John could barely contain a smile at the sight.

“He’s just thinking, don’t worry about him.” John said after a second, eyes flicking to Victor momentarily.

Maeve squealed, this time louder.

“Shhh.” John hushed her gently, leaning down slightly.

“Does she do this often?” Victor asked, crossing his legs with a smile.

“Demand the attention of everyone in the room? Yes, all the time.”

“I bet.”

“Just like her father.” John said.

Victor chuckled.

Maeve squealed again.

“She’s developing a habit of crying whenever she wants something.” John sighed and scratched his chin.

“Awww.” Victor nodded. “I believe it’s quite common.”

“Yes, but what she wants is-” John was interrupted by Maeve’s scream and breaking into tears. Victor winced. John sighed. “Sherlock.”

The consulting detective didn’t move. He was purposely ignoring her.

The blonde reached down to untangle the infants hands from the cats fur and pick her up as she cried, tears already streaming down her cheeks as she screamed with frustration, sad and angry that she wasn’t getting her way. It was nothing compared to her cries of pain but still horrible to listen to.

“Come on, no need to cry.” John shifted her to sit on his knee so that she was facing him. Maeve continued to cry. He jiggled her up and down slightly.

There were sounds of footsteps on the stairs and Mrs Hudson poked her head around the doorway. “Is everything alright John?”

“Yeah,” John answered. He glanced at his shoulder at his landlady as he brought Maeve up against his chest and placed a hand on her back, rubbing it through the material as she cried into his shirt.

“Is there anything I can do?”

“No, it’s fine Mrs. Hudson.”

Mrs. Hudson ducked out of the flat with a small unsure smile.

“Sherlock.” John said sternly.

Sherlock sighed and levelled the army doctor with an equally serious expression. “John.”

“You can’t ignore her.”

“I believe I just was.” He flashes an overly fake smile.

“Don’t give me that, she doesn’t want me, she wants you, so either you can take her or we can continue this with her crying the entire time.”

“You could take her into another room.”

“You could, she came from you, not me.” John raised one eyebrow.

Sherlock continued to stare at him, not wanting to be the first one to back down. His resolve broke, “Fine.”

John’s lip tugged up on one side.

“Don’t look so pleased with yourself,” Sherlock told him, voice level. He stood up and quickly plucked the upset infant from the blonde’s hands, turning her mid-air so that she was facing him, and told her. “You either, you nightmare or I’ll just let you cry next time.”

“Like that’s going to happen,” John snorted.

Maeve stopped crying almost immediately, sniffling as he placed one large hand on the back of her head and gently forced it against his shoulder so that her face was angled towards his neck, body pressed against his chest. Sherlock relaxed but only John noticed, trained in noticing the unnoticeable in the consulting detective. His neck was less strained and his back, still straight seemed to go a little more lax like his arms, which were strong but comfortable, holding his daughter like she was the most precious thing in existence. It pained him to let her cry but she had to learn, he might not always be there and though that thought made his stomach drop, he needed her to be ok.

 “Yes, shhhh now,” he hushed gently, eyes carefully avoiding the two other men. “Daddy has work to do, so be a good girl, be a good girl for daddy.”

Maeve babbled against his neck in response.

“Yes, daddy’s here.” He closed his eyes and rocked her side to side until she stopped sniffling. He opened his eyes and craned his neck to look at her face, then placed a kiss on the top of her head.

John picked up the clean muslin from the arm of his chair and held it out to the taller man. Sherlock took it from him and wiped her face methodically, removing all traces of tears, snot and drool. When he was satisfied he sat down, leaving the muslin on his leg which he bounced impatiently as he settled Maeve into a slightly more comfortable position so that he could hold her with one arm. He placed the other on the arm of his chair and looked at Victor expectantly, “and?”

“And what?” Victor asked, snapping out of his shocked reprieve.

“What happened next?” John clarified, clearing his throat delicately.

“Well, I’m sure she followed me here.”

“She followed you here.” John repeated, shocked.

“Well, not to the door, a car pulled up after mine and drove away almost immediately after.”

John frowned and wrote in his notebook.

Sherlock took a long breath.

Victor’s eyes darted between them, “so, will you take my case?”

“Yes, of course.” Sherlock said, frowning as though it were the most obvious thing in the world.

“Right, well…what now?”

“I need to see your house” Sherlock said with a smile.

Victor nodded and stood up, careful not to knock the chair as he did so.

“The bag is packed.” John said, rising to his feet and pocketing his notebook. Sherlock hummed but said nothing. “Are we taking the pram?”

Sherlock nodded. “Yes, just the carseat setting, no need for the whole thing.”

“She hates the carseat.” John sighed.

“Yes well, she won’t be in it for long.”

“Right,” Sherlock looked down at the pacified child in his arms. “You must promise that you’ll be a good girl for Daddy.” He kissed the top of her head and sighed, “Show Daddy how good you can be.”

“She doesn’t understand a word of that, does she?” Victor asked, looking to John.

“No but it pacifies him,” the blonde quipped.

“Very funny.” Sherlock countered.

“Well you’re the one talking to a baby as though she were an adult.” Victor said and for a moment, it was as though they were at university again. The effortless banter of close friends flowing once more.

Sherlock sniffed. “She is four months old, she needs her brain stimulated _and_ she is already far more advanced than other children her age.”

“Yes, alright, she’s amazing. You’re amazing.” John sighed, the baby bag hooked over his shoulder. “Shall we get going before little miss decides to grump again?”


	53. One Hundred and Forty Days Old

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock helps Victor out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't apologise enough for the amount of time between chapters, I've been truly awful. Honestly, I've been uninspired and unmotivated recently and my mental health hasn't been at its best, so writing has taken a backseat, unfortunately. I feel so bad and I'll endeavour to do better, I promise. Also, the quality of this chapter is horrible, so sorry again.
> 
> I feel like I'm constantly apologising.

 

Maeve was babbling in content against her father’s chest. Her hands were gripped in his coat and her eyes were fixed ahead of her at his clothed chest, occasionally flicking up to his face as though to check he was still there. It was obvious that she was scared of him disappearing, somehow slipping through his grip. Sherlock could read this in her body language, of course, John knew, watching him from the other side of the room. The consulting detective’s hand was resting on the back of her head, occasionally stroking with his forefinger over the soft but thickening strands of dark hair. He displayed the care one would expect from any father while simultaneously demonstrating the behaviour of a professional. His eyes flicked in a precise and practised manner, drinking in all the information he could from every item.

Once he was finished with the main body of the house he gestured towards the next room which was separated from view with a large drape made from a burgundy velvet.

“Go right ahead.” Victor nodded and stepped towards the curtain. He pulled it back to allow Sherlock access and the dark haired man stepped inside. John nodded in thanks and followed.

The room was once a conservatory but now it was being used as an art studio. There were canvases against every available surface and in the centre of the room, an easel with a blank canvas beside a paint palette. Sherlock stepped carefully around the easels and equipment.

“Some of the canvases may be wet,” Victor warned.

John nodded and Sherlock carried on looking around the room, not giving any indication that he’d heard the other man. Instead, he used his free hand, the one not currently stroking his daughter’s scalp, and moved one of the canvases at the front of the pile. He crouched down, weary of the infant attached to his front. Behind the painting, he’d moved was an unfinished portrait of a girl, well, young woman. He titled his head to get a better look at it, the girl in question was pretty, pale with freckles and straight brown hair that was only painted on one side and without great detail. The eyes were brown also and glimmered with an unspoken longing.

“I take it this is Emily.” It was not a question. It was the first time he’d spoken since coming into the house and the deep grumble pleased Maeve very much. She giggled against his chest, looking up to face him as she did so, seeking his approval. The older man craned his neck to watch her and smiled, his hand rubbing over the back of her head in a slow smooth movement. His eyes flicked back to the canvas and he carefully placed the other painting back in front of it.

Victor cleared his throat, not wanting to break the moment and said in a low voice, “yes.”

“She’s very pretty,” John observed.

Sherlock rolled his eyes, “obviously.”

“It’s quite, well the thing is,” Victor scratched the back of his head awkwardly. “I have a taste for-”

John watched the art curator expectantly.

Sherlock sighed and rose to his feet. “Victor likes beautiful things.”

Victor snorted and argued, “I wouldn’t phrase it quite like that and Emily was far from perfect, the painting isn’t yet finished so you wouldn’t know but she’s rather normal, I wanted to capture that.”

“I’ve seen enough,” Sherlock said, referring to the painting.

“And?”

Sherlock shrugged. “It’s fairly obvious that she’s been following you.”

“Obvious?” Victor frowned.

“There are distinct footprints in the flower beds, scratches on the front door beside the doorbell and fingers marks on the windows in the kitchen and basement.”

“The footprints could be mine.” Victor challenged.

“Don’t be dull, Victor. The footprints are obviously too small to belong to you, you’re an eight, these are a six. I know what you’re thinking, men can have small feet too but the balance of probability suggests that these belong to a woman. What man would be caught dead in a pair of knee-high boots? Isabel Marant boots to be exact, made from camel leather with a 3.3inches, scuffed around the toes and the heels replaced twice. The imprint also suggests that she was crouching, obviously, she wouldn’t want to be caught, so she crouched in the flowerbeds, unfortunately treading on the foliage there, she was there quite some time during a rainy night, how did I know it was night? Well, who in their right mind would crouch in somebodies garden during the day and risk getting caught?  How did I know she was there for some time? The depth of the imprints, her heels started to sink in the mud but only in one place, so she was there for the longest but did move around a bit, the imprints have mostly been washed away by the rain but those one’s remain because she was there while it rained and for at least an hour, perhaps two. It rained for seventy-five minutes last night starting at just after midnight, so these are fresh. Her legs ached but she does spin and Pilates so it didn’t faze her much, not when she had the perfect view of you painting. Shall I go on?” Sherlock levelled Victor with a look and sighed, stroking his daughter’s head properly now. Her legs kicked in excitement.

It was silent for a minute. Victor’s mouth opened once and closed as he tried to formulate a response. He cleared his throat and frowned, “how do you know what boots she was wearing?”

“She scratched her boots on the rose bush.” Sherlock sniffed. “There pieces leather on lower branches and suede on the thorns higher up, Isabel Marant boots have a suede trim.”

“That’s crazy. You were outside for thirty seconds, tops.”

“Yes.”

“And you got all that?”

“Yes. I checked Emily’s Instagram feed.” He pulled his phone out of his coat pocket and brandished it at the two men, showing them her profile. “In four of these pictures she’s wearing those boots, they’re obviously a favourite of hers. It could be because they were a gift but more likely because of the price. She brought them second hand, of course, but she obviously has a soft spot for the boots or she wouldn’t have had them re-heeled twice or paid £200 for them. I also notice a distinct lack of posts from last night. Not pictures or anything on her story, suggests she was busy but with what? What could be more important than spin with her roommates followed by Pilates? She goes every week. How do I know she goes every week? Because five weeks ago she posted a picture after her ‘workout’ and subsequently her friends post something weekly but this week, no post, she wasn’t there. No, she wouldn’t be, she was here watching you paint.”

“I didn’t pain last night,” Victor admitted.

“No, you stared at a canvas and decided to employ my help the next. Let’s say you were struggling for creativity. Anything else you want me to explain?” He raised an eyebrow, “I could go slower.”

John snorted in disbelief. “Alright, try not to look so pleased with yourself.”

“The scratched on the doorbell,” Victor looked confused.

“Unless you use Gucci in shade swan.” The corner of his lip turned up in amusement.

“Nail varnish, you got that from nail varnish?”

“Emily’s Instagram.” John guessed.

“Ahhh somebody is paying attention, at last.” A proud look passed over the consulting detective’s face as he looked at his partner. John blushed and looked down at the ground.

“But why is she doing this?” Victor asked.

“She’s looking for a quick payday. Get your father to lend you his security team and the next time she steps foot on your property, have her arrested for trespassing, if the police need more evidence, send them in my direction. She’s done with you now, she knows how access the art work you’re currently curating and will attempt to take something and sell it further down the line. For now, she’s being watched and the moment she tries anything, the police will be informed. I’ve sent word to a contact at Scotland Yard and he’s making the appropriate people aware, they’ll want to see you tomorrow to get the full story, no doubt and charges will be brought. And, no need to worry about the show you’ve been working on, everything of value has been moved to an appropriate location until the threat has been resolved.”

“When did you do that?”

“In the cab on the way over.” Sherlock flashed a closed mouth smile.

“Then, wait, why did we come here?”

Sherlock inhaled, “fresh air, it’s good for Maeve.”

“You tricky –”

Sherlock cut him off with a stern look and raised eyebrows. “Please, there is a child present.”

“So, what now?”

“Now? John and I take a cab home, probably on the longest and most expensive route until my daughter falls asleep when she does, I will go through the pile of cases Lestrade dropped off earlier this morning. John will, no doubt, update his blog and we’ll order takeaway. If we’re lucky, an interesting case may present itself but I am in high doubt, the criminal classes are really not what they used to be.”

“You could let me buy you dinner, as a thank you.”

Sherlock’s eyes flicked down to his daughter. “Victor, I believe there may be some misunderstanding –”

Victor cut him off, “No strings, and no expectations. Just a thank you. I can see that you’re very happy. You have John and Maeve. I just thought we could catch up.”

“Right.” Sherlock managed.

The awkwardness of the moment was broken by John snorting in amusement. “He’d love dinner.”

“The invitation was for both of you,” Victor said with a friendly smile.

John nodded. “Well, we’d be glad to accept your offer.”

“Good, shall we say seven?”

“We haven’t got a babysitter,” Sherlock interjected, looking a little flustered.

“I’m sure Mrs Hudson wouldn’t mind watching her for a few hours or your brother.” John assured him.

“My brother is a very important man, John.”

“I know, but he loves spending time with Maeve.”

“But-”

“I’ll call him.” John insisted.

Sherlock nodded and angled his head to face Victor once more. “Then, it appears we’d be delighted to join you for dinner.”

 

* * *

 

 

John placed his phone on the coffee table and turned to face the consulting detective. He was currently cradling his daughter, she’d just woken up after drifting off in the cab and if the look on Sherlock’s face was anything to go by, it was the worst thing that had ever happened. He waited patiently until Maeve closed her eyes and they didn’t open again before he said what he was sure Sherlock already knew.

“Mycroft will be over before seven.”

Sherlock didn’t react.

John cleared his throat. “Is there a reason you don’t want to have dinner with Victor?”

“I was under the impression that we’d be spending the night in, the three of us.”

John perched on the arm of his chair and crossed his arms over his chest. He wasn’t at all convinced. “You’re annoyed because you thought we were having a family night in?”

“I wanted to save you the discomfort.” He admitted, not looking up from Maeve.

“Me?”

“Victor and I used to ….” He paused, “see each other.”

“I’m aware.”

“He may not be interested in rekindling our liaisons but he will no doubt want to talk about the past a great deal, a past you weren’t involved in and wouldn’t approve of. I didn’t want you getting….” He trailed off.

“To get jealous?” John supplied. He chuckled. “Don’t worry, he may be a pretty boy but I know you better than he does, remember? I’m not jealous of Victor, I promise.”

Sherlock didn’t look entirely convinced.

“He doesn’t do drugs anymore,” Sherlock looked up at the blonde for the first time with a small proud smile. “I’m a doctor, remember? I know when somebodies been using and he hasn’t. I have nothing to be worried about. One dinner, what’s the worst that could happen?”

Sherlock relaxed for the first time since they’d gotten home and said, softly. “I love you, John Watson.”

“I know.” John smiled.

 

* * *

 

 

Mycroft was, after juggling his rather excitable niece with a new feeding routine that consisted of some baby rice and if she was still full a bottle, relaxing in the silence of his brothers flat. Silence was not the best word for it, his country manner offered him complete, uninterrupted silence. Here, the silence was more like static noise of people and cars constantly moving. It was the unmistakable sound of London. He found it rather soothing, that and the sound of his niece sleeping in her bedroom upstairs, the monitor on the table beside him made it sound as though she were in the room. He was somewhat glad she was not, though he enjoyed spending time with her, he was enjoying a moment alone with his book. It was an Italian novel, the title in English, _The Betrothed._

The sound of a cab pulling up outside the flat caught his attention and he looked up from his book, his eyes flicking first to the monitor. Maeve had not moved since he left the room. Her hands were beside her head, fingers curled and her mouth parted as she snored softly. Then, he let his eyes wander around the flat as he closed his book. He uncrossed his legs and placed the book on the left, with his right hand he smooth his right trouser leg. There was an unmistakable spot of baby rice close to his crotch and his jacket, which was hung over the door handle, baby vomit drying across the front and right shoulder.

Sherlock was the first to step into the flat. He stalked around till he was facing Mycroft, well facing the monitor on the table beside him. He watched for any sign of difficulties on Maeve before relaxing slightly and allowing his eyes to wander onto his elder brother for the first time.

“She was fine,” Mycroft assured him with a tight but friendly smile.

“Of course she was,” Sherlock scoffed. “How long did it take her to settle down?”

“She was rather…excitable for the better part of an hour. After some difficulties with dinner, she settled down somewhat.” He looked over his shoulder as John came into the room.

“Mycroft.” He greeted.

“John.” Mycroft managed a half-smile. “How was dinner?”

“Like you don’t already know,” John said with an amused, raised eyebrow.

Mycroft raised his hand to his face and rested his forefinger on his cheek, so close that it was basically touching his mouth. “Yes, and how was the salmon?”

“How did you-” John cut himself off, “never mind.”

“She was sick.” Sherlock said, a stern expression on his face.

Mycroft didn’t read much into it, was nothing more than the look of a concerned parent. He calmly explained, “She decided that eating was not on the agenda tonight. As I mentioned, she was rather excitable. She was giddy throughout dinner, laughing and completely unfocused on the task at hand. When she decided to eat her baby rice, she favoured spitting it out and throwing it at me. She wasn’t dull so I have her the bottle, as instructed, and she drank it too fast and made herself sick. She is absolutely fine.”

“She was happy to see you.” John said with a fond smile.

“Yes, it appears so.” Mycroft nodded.

“Thank you for watching her, I’ll pay your drying cleaning.” Sherlock offered.

“There’s no need, brother mine. I’ll see you on Wedneaday.”


	54. One Hundred and Fifty-Four Days Old

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Domestic life is hard for Sherlock but as long as he has John and Maeve, he knows he'll be alright. Or, Sherlock spends the day at home with Maeve and they begin taste-testing foods while Uncle Mycroft arrives for his weekly visit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another chapter, who dis? 
> 
> In all seriousness, thank you to those that left comments on the last chapter and read it. I did promise that I'd try to do better, this is me trying. I hope you enjoy this chapter. It was actually kinda effortless once I started, I enjoy that when I'm writing. Let me know what you think in the comments below. I love hearing from you all. 
> 
> And coming up in the next chapter, you probably guessed it.The boys and Maeve attend a charity gala/ball that Mummy is throwing and yes, they'll be some mighty fine outfits.

The flat was a mess, or to be specific, the kitchen was a mess. The consulting detective had spent the last two hours cooking and blending different fruit and vegetables and placing them in ice cube trays which were stacked up on the table, ready to be put into the fridge. There were also bowls, small bowls covered with cling film. The kind you buy for kids and use for a few months before getting bored. Sherlock had both blue and pink bowls lined up and in each, a different puree for Maeve to try. Maeve was perched in her high-chair watching as her daddy rushed around the room, placing, even more, pots in the sink and surfaces surrounding it. In her hands was a set of soft plastic toys which she alternated between chewing on and bashing against the clear bit of table within her reach. Her eyes were mostly fixed on her father, seeking his approval for the loudness of her actions.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow at her. “Yes, I can hear you.”

Maeve took this as confirmation that her actions were desirable and continue banging the table with the keys, louder and more frequently than before. All the while, looking entirely too pleased with herself.

“It would be an abuse of the government’s time and money to call in a team to clean this, wouldn’t it?”

There was no answer. Maeve gurgled and looked up at her father.

He sighed, “I thought as much.”

He stepped around the table so that he was closer to her. “I should clean it now, that’s what John would do.”

He sighed again, this time louder and far more dramatic than before.

“Or, we could do it later and have a rusk?”

Maeve gurgled and kicked her legs.

“Yes, I prefer the latter option too.”

He unstrapped and picked up his daughter, careful not to catch her legs on the high-chair as he moved her into a sitting position, using his chest to support her back and his arm as the base, he held her as though she were sitting on a chair. With his other hand, he picked up the keys, it had become something of her favourite toy and leaving them there was not an option. He sat on the sofa and placed Maeve, carefully, so that she was sat beside him, two pillows behind her back keeping her up straight and she looked around the room. He watched as she lifted her head and her pale neck was exposed. He touched it with one finger, tickling slightly. Maeve jerked and gurgled as if to say ‘dad.’ He stopped and smiled down at her.

“Uncle Mycroft will be here soon.” He told her. “And Daddy is bringing back takeaway for dinner tonight. We’re having Chinese, one day you’ll be old enough to eat with us.”

Maeve gurgled and looked up at him. She moved her mouth as though she were trying to talk and flashed him a gummy smile. There were no teeth yet but they would come soon, Sherlock was certain.

“Until then, we’ll try you on the purees I made, yeah.” The inflexion of his voice rose.

Maeve’s eyes widened in excitement and her smile was visually larger as she kicked her legs out.

“Shall we have a bath?” He asked. He lent towards her and nuzzled his nose into her belly, he gave a show at sniffing deeply. He said simply as he pulled back, “you smell like cabbage.”

Maeve’s hands reached towards his face, eager to touch the skin there and he let her explore the crevices of his mouth, nose and eyes. After a moment or two, he pulled back enough to look her directly in the eye so that her fingers could no longer reach him. “I smell like cabbage too, don’t I?”

 

* * *

 

 

The bath was the perfect temperature for Maeve. He stepped into the bath with caution and lowered himself into the water. There was enough that it reached up to her mid-belly while she was rested on his lap. His hand held her firmly against his chest so that she would not slip or fall. With his free hand, he picked up the little green ball he had left in a dish on the side.

“This,” he told her, showing the small green ball to her, “is something daddy has been working on.”

Maeve’s eyes were glued to it.

“This is a bath bomb,” he informed her as though it were a science lesson. “I won’t bore you with the details but the water should turn green, shall we see?”

Maeve gurgled in response.

Sherlock kissed the top of her head and placed his hand, along with the small green bath bomb, in the water. It hissed the moment it touched the water and he withdrew his palm so that they could watch it fizz and turn in the water, the green colour oozing into the once clear water. This lasted for about a minute. The fizzing stopped and Maeve splashed around in the water. He smiled, “yes, it’s very pretty.”

He let her splash in the water for a moment or two before he asked, “did you like that?”

He took her exciting kicking as confirmation, in reality, it was probably a reaction to the inflexion of his voice. He didn’t give it much thought, instead, he picked up the baby shampoo and using his free hand began to massage the product into her scalp. She jerked and tried to get away. “Stop it.” He warned as he continued.

When he was satisfied, he lent back slightly, her small body reclining against his so that she was angled away as he cupped water and rinsed her hair of the product. She jerked for the first few seconds before stopping, and allowing him to wash out the product, it was the easier option but she made warning sounds as though she were going to cry any moment if he didn’t stop soon. The product was rinsed out completely, so Sherlock moved forward slightly, away from the back of the bath. He gently washed Maeve’s face with some water, then preceded to clean her with a small soft sponge. To finish, he stood up and wrapped Maeve in a towel before placing her in her bouncy chair, then he washed his own hair, careful to keep an eye on her. Afterwards, he stepped out of the bath, dry himself quickly and pulled on his beige robe. He tied it carefully and took Maeve into the bedroom through the adjoining door.

He placed her on the bed and selected a simple baby-grow for the rest of the day, at least she could also sleep in it if she didn’t get messy again. When she was completely dry, moisturised and dress, he set about dressing himself. He pulled on a pair of maroon pyjama bottoms and a top, plain white, inside out of course before picking her up again. Maeve’s hair was beginning to dry. The dark strands were still short but beginning to curl. His own hair was what his brother would call ‘a mop’ - it was wet but beginning to take form into its usual curls, without intervention it would dry in a frizz, messy and without proper definition. He also picked up his hairbrush before moving back into the sitting room.

The odour of cooked vegetables and fruit still hung thick in the air. The window, which was ajar, had done nothing to get rid of the smell. He put Maeve down on her tummy time matt facing up towards the colourful archway with small soft animal toys. She was immediately captivated by them and started to reach up as Sherlock sighed and took a moment to brush his hair, keeping an eye on the infant in the mirror. Once he was finished brushing, he tousled the curls into their ‘natural’ shape, put down the brush and sat on the floor beside his daughter.

“What should we do for the rest of the day?” He asked her before musing. “We could review the cases that Lestrade brought over or see what Mycroft has for us, we won’t ask him, of course. Could we do some minor hacking or break into his house? That would be foolish though, he’ll be here soon enough. There may be something interesting on my website but it’s highly doubtful. John may have something on his blog but he gets mad when I figure out his password as if it’s my fault he’s predictable.”

Maeve gurgled.

“Yes, your Papa is a very confusing man.”

Sherlock frowned at himself, cleared his throat and reached for Maeve. “Don’t tell him I told you that.”

 

* * *

 

 

When Mycroft arrived at the flat, Sherlock was in the process of setting up his experiment – the taste test. His notepad was at the ready, though he didn’t really need it, and the bowls were closer to him but not close enough for Maeve to reach. She was watching him with wide curious eyes. He had the first bowl beside him with a spoon in it, ready to go. It was a potato puree. Mycroft paused in the threshold, his face a neutral mask as his eyes roamed over his brother and niece in seconds, drinking in all the information they offered and making deductions in his mind. Any average person would not see through that look but Sherlock did, as he was often on the other end of it, doing the deducing himself. Mycroft’s lips pulled into a thin grim smile, the one somebody may make upon entering a dirty house and being offered to sit down. This smile, in Mycroft’s case, meant that he was pleased to be there.

“Good afternoon,” he greeted.

Sherlock nodded in his general direction and then spoke to Maeve. “I told you he’d be here soon.”

Maeve seemed to finally notice the elder Holmes brother and began kicking her legs enthusiastically while looking between the brothers, her mouth open in a wide excited smile. Sherlock laughed and assured her, “yes, I know he’s here. I can see him too.”

“I see you’ve been cooking,” Mycroft stepped into the kitchen slowly, making sure to stroke one large hand over his nieces head before dropping down to kiss her on the forehead. He pulled the chair opposite Sherlock’s and nodded, “may I?”

Sherlock nodded. Mycroft always insisted on manners.

“We’re starting with potato,” Sherlock informed him.

“Yes, there’s quite a…” Mycroft’s eyes roamed over the table and his lips pulled into a tight smile, “colourful range of foods for her to try. And what has prompted this little experiment?”

“Until now, she has only had baby rice. It’s time to add some flavour into her diet.”

“Domestic life too boring for you brother mine?”

Mycroft frowned. “No.”

“There’s no shame in it.” Mycroft smiled smugly as he dug the tip of his umbrella into the floor and watched as though it were the most interesting thing he’d ever seen.

“I am not bored. Well, not of her anyway or John. There is a distinct lack of cases, my brain needs to be occupied, so this” he gestured wildly to the table, “will have to do.”

Mycroft narrowed his eyes slightly.

Sherlock cleared his throat and continued, “Plus, she needs to experience more flavours.”

“Anything to stop your mind from, what was it you used to say?” Sherlock sighed, his brother’s memory was perfectly fine. “ _Rotting.”_

“You’re early.”

“Yes, a meeting with” he stopped himself and smiled, “well, you don’t need to know who.”

“Thrilling.” Sherlock declared flatly as he picked up the first bowl and spooned at the off-white mush. He made sure only a small amount was on the spoon before offering it to her. Maeve looked at the spoon cautiously before cracking her mouth open slightly. Sherlock moved the spoon forward and then placed it at her lips. She opened wider and accepted the spoonful. After a few seconds, her expression changed.

“Oh yes,” Mycroft said aloud as he edged closer to his niece, “this could be interesting.”

“Quite.” Sherlock agreed with a grin.

  

* * *

 

 

“The apple and cinnamon were a definite no,” Mycroft announced as he wiped the front of his niece's mouth for any trace of the puree.

Sherlock stopped rubbing at the wet spot on his robe with a small, annoyed smile. “Obviously.”

“So, it was a firm liking to the banana, pear, and sweet potato.

“She did not like the avocado or,” he gestured at the wet spot.

“The apple and cinnamon.”

“Cross that off the list.”

Mycroft nodded and put a small cross beside the two food groups they’d just said. 

“She was unsure of the plain apple, papaya and carrot.”

“I have extras of them in the freezer to try at a later date.”

“Is that all?”

“Not quite,” Sherlock admitted.

  

* * *

 

 

“The mixes were somewhat successful,” Sherlock said as he watched Mrs Hudson coo at his daughter.

“Yes?” She asked, looking up for a second before her eyes flicked back to the baby.

“The common dominator was broccoli.” He said.

“She liked it?”

“No,” Mycroft said quick but firm. He managed a small smile. “She did not like the broccoli.”

“Awww, it’s better learnt now.” The older woman said. “Any other hits?”

“She favours the sweet options,” Sherlock said casting a look at his brother.

“Yes, the fruits did seem to be her favourite.” Mycroft agreed.

“Banana, peach, strawberry. The banana and mango.”

“And you’ve made spares?” Mrs Hudson asked, her eyes floating to the mess in the kitchen.

“Yes, they’re in the freezer. Small but generous portions that are ready at a moment’s notice. I’ve thrown out most of the misses but kept a few reserved to try in a few weeks’ time.” The consulting detective told her.

“Should I start some dinner?” The landlady offered.

“John is picking up Chinese.”

“Will you be staying Mycroft?”

“Unfortunately no, I have a meeting to attend. I can only stay for another forty-six minutes.” The auburn haired man smiled politely at the older man.

“Well, I should really go back downstairs.” She announced standing up. Her eyes did not leave Maeve.

“Mrs Hudson.” Mycroft nodded.

Sherlock smiled and watched her leave.

“Well, how do you intend to spend the next forty-five minutes and twenty-three seconds of your time?”

Mycroft raised his eyebrow.

  

* * *

 

 

Mycroft had left hours before John arrived home. The doctor stepped straight into the kitchen and placed the bag of Chinese food on the table. He raised an eyebrow at the stack of pots and pans in and around the sink but said nothing. Instead, he peered into the living room. Sherlock was spread out on the floor in what can only be described as a mound of pillows and blankets, piled up in two or three places. Sherlock lay on his back with his head and neck supported by a mound of pillows, his eyes were closed and his hands were fixed firmly on the infant asleep on his chest. It would be easy to mistake him as asleep also if it weren’t for the quiet breathing. He wouldn’t say that Sherlock snored but his breathing would be louder and more even if he were asleep. He creaked an eye open as John stared at him but said nothing.

“Do I want to know about the mess in the kitchen?”

“The notebook on the table should be suitable enough explanation.” He said in a deep rumble.

John sighed and looked back into the kitchen, at the notepad on the table.

“This is a list of fruit and vegetables with ticks and crosses,” Sherlock could hear the frown as he spoke. “Some have a question mark and there are mixtures here too. You’ve been cooking.”

“I have compiled a list of all the fruit and vegetables that Maeve likes and does not like.”

“So, you’ve been trying food?”

“Astute observation John but yes.” Sherlock’s brow furrowed.

“So, she has a bit of a sweet tooth according to your observations.”

“Yes, it runs in the family. She was particularly fond of the peach.”

“Yes, you marked that here.” The blonde looked back into the living room. “So, a productive day, was it?”

Sherlock lifted one hand and gestured in a small relaxed wave. “Somewhat.”

“Any interesting cases?”

“Mundane at best.” Sherlock moved his hand to pinch at the bridge of his nose.

“That’s a shame.”

“My mother called.” Sherlock placed his hand back on Maeve’s back.

“How is she?”

Sherlock sighed at the small talk. “Fine. Apparently, it’s imperative that we attend one of her charity events.”

“Who’s going to look after Maeve?” John folded his arms across his chest.

“She’ll come with us.”

“Do you think that’ll be a good idea?”

“It makes little difference to me,” Sherlock admitted. “But the charity event is dedicated to children in need, focusing on children that have been or would have been abandoned if not for the help of this charity.”

“Yes, Maeve’s appearance will help your mother greatly.”

“Finally you see.”

“Hey!” John protested.

“You’re quicker than most John,” Sherlock said simply as though it were a compliment, it was in some messed up way, so the blonde just shrugged. “In penance, she has agreed to pay for anything we need for the evening.”

“I already have a tux.” The doctor grumbled.

“Yes, but this one will be a very expensive tux.”

“You don’t need to do that.”

“I do and I have. I’ve already sent them our measurements. You’ll love my tailor.”

“We’ll need to get Little Miss something to wear.”

“I have a few options lined up, we’ll see when they get here.”

“Right, that’s decided then. Dinner?”

“Starving.”


	55. One Hundred and Sixty Days Old

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Violet Holmes is throwing a charity gala much to Sherlock's annoyance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry this took so long. I swear I'm always apologising to you guys. I was meant to upload this chapter last week but I was so busy preparing and going on holiday. So, the end of this chapter took a bit of a back seat. But it's here now, I don't like it but I hope you do. You always seem to like it no matter what, so here it is and thank you for your patience. I will do better. I PROMISE.

The sun was shining through a gentle mist as the car pulled up the gravel driveway leading to the hotel his mother had handpicked for her charity gala. The neo-gothic mansion looked akin to a castle, the type a princess would be locked away in and sheltered from the world within the cold sandy stone, turrets and elegant arched windows. It was overwhelming or it would be to a normal person, Sherlock Holmes merely glanced at the house through the tinted window, stepped out of the car and picked up his discontent daughter. She whined as though the movement pained her and he pressed his lips to the top of her head.

“It’s ok, daddy’s here.” He assured her as she fidgeted against his chest.

“This place is,” John shook his head instead of finishing.

“Quite,” Sherlock responded in a clipped tone.

“Are you sure you’re ok?”

“Fine.”

“You don’t seem fine.” The blonde moved towards the back of the car to collect the bags as the driver did the same with a small reassuring smile.

“My mother could have picked anywhere to hold this _gala”_ he practically spat the word. “But she chose Stratford-upon-Avon. She chose a one hour and fifty-two-minute journey.”

John looked clueless.

Sherlock levelled him with a look. “She is under the impression that I’ll be bringing my daughter to her gala which starts at eight John, a time which usually sees her in bed, not at a party.”

“She slept the entire journey.”

“Yes, and she’ll need to sleep the rest of the day too.”

“So… she’s not having a routine for a weekend, it’s not the end of the world.”

“Stop talking sense.” Sherlock snapped, looking away from the blonde. “It’s irritating.”

John grinned to himself and picked up Maeve’s bag.

 

* * *

 

“Are you actually going to help me unpack or?” John asked, waving one of the detective’s shirt around to emphasise his point.

“Shhhh” Sherlock warned.

John glared at him. Sherlock didn’t notice, or, if he did, he showed no indication. The consulting detective was on the large four-poster bed, lain on his side angled towards his daughter, who he was attempting to get back to sleep. His hand was resting just above her head, finger occasionally stroking the soft skin of her face as her eyelids dropped, eyelashes fluttering in a desperate attempt to stay awake. He lowered his voice.

“It’s ok, Daddy is right here. I won’t leave you. Just close your eyes.”

Her eyes closed as though she were following his command and they didn’t open again this time.

John paused on the threshold of the large room and watched for a moment before moving again, this time with far more caution than before. If he woke her now, Sherlock would not be happy. After a few moments, he was satisfied that light sounds would not wake her and went about unpacking once more.

Ten minutes later, John was sat on one of the chairs in the longue area of their room which was separated from the bedroom by only a rounded archway instead of a door. The ex-army doctor was reading the newspaper while the consulting detective was in the exact position he had been in ten minutes previously, his face angled towards Maeve but his eyes were closed. He was not sleeping, just resting and sorting through his schedule for the rest of the day, no doubt. It was a knock on the door that roused him from his thoughts, his eyes snapped open and darted to Maeve, who was, luckily, still sound asleep. He sighed and pressed a kiss to her hand as he sat up on the bed, watching as John walked around the chair towards the door which was out of sight. The door opened. It was his father.

“I don’t want to disturb you.” His father said in a hushed, almost embarrassed tone.

“You’re not disturbing us,” John assured him, stepping past to let him into the room.

“Is Maeve asleep?”

“Yeah,” the door taped shut. “She’s on the bed.”

“I can leave, I don’t want to wake her up.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes and got up from the bed, he stopped in the threshold and lent against the archway with his arms folded across his chest. “There’s no need for you to leave, she’s quite asleep.”

Siger looked at the ground and then back up at his son. “I was wondering if you’d looked around the grounds yet, it’s really quite beautiful, Maeve would love it.”

“We haven’t had the chance.” John managed a lopsided smile.

“I suppose it’s a dent in the routine, bringing her all the way out here and keeping her up for later.”

“Something like that.”

Siger smiled sadly at Sherlock, “your mother is running around like she usually does at these events.”

“John, would you send down for some tea?” Sherlock’s eyes flicked to the blonde.

John frowned, surprised by the manners but said nothing about it. Instead, he nodded and crossed the room to the windows, where the phone sat on a small table.

Siger gestured to the seat and sat when Sherlock nodded. “You don’t need to check up on me, I’m an adult.”

“I’m aware.” Siger smiled at that. There was a moment of silence.

“I’ll be keeping Maeve asleep as long as possible if you want her to be awake tonight. However, I cannot promise that her disposition will be rosy.”

“No, I didn’t expect you would. She’s a baby after all. I just wanted you to know that your mother appreciates you coming.”

“I’m very much aware.” Sherlock frowned. “She could have told me herself.”

“Well, she’s like a headless chicken down there. She’s shouted at me at least three times, it’s best out stay out of her way until later, preferably after she’s had her first glass of champagne.”

“I had no intention of seeing her until tonight.”

“That’s for the best.” Siger nodded and watched as John took a seat on the small sofa opposite.

“The tea will be ten minutes,” John cleared his throat.

Siger nodded in acknowledgement, “Mycroft was telling me about an experiment you were doing together the other day, care to tell me about it?”

It was the first time since they’d arrived that the consulting detective smiled.

 

* * *

 

“She’s precious,” Siger said more to himself than anybody else as he watched his granddaughter sleep.

She stretched her body out slightly and her lips pushed into a pout.

“I like this baby grow.”

“Yes, it’s rather fetching.” John agreed from the end of the bed.

It was a simple pale grey with clouds on it. Sherlock seemed to like it.

“How long are you going to let her sleep?”

“As long as possible,” Sherlock responded in a clipped tone.

“You should eat some lunch. The restaurant is rather good, your mother and I had ours there yesterday, they do an excellent range of hot and cold meals. I could watch Maeve if you wanted to go and get something.”

“Room service,” Sherlock said in argument.

“You can’t come to a beautiful hotel like this and spend the whole day in your room.”

Sherlock looked as though he were ready to argue.

John stepped in, “I’m sure Violet will be eager to know where you’ve got to.”

“You’re right,” Siger grumbled to himself. “She’ll have no out sent out a search party.”

“We’ll go down and get some lunch.” John shot Sherlock a look that said he was not to be argued with.

The detective picked up the baby bag and managed through gritted teeth, “fine.”

 

* * *

 

The restaurant was simple and elegant, much like the rest of the hotel, it reeked of history. There were small square tables with white tablecloths lined up at the sides of the room and in the centre, larger tables for bigger parties. Sherlock paused in the threshold, ignoring the waiter that stopped in front of them and allowed John to ask him for a table with adequate space for them and the push chair. The consulting detective’s eyes drifted towards a table for four in the corner of the restaurant beside some windows looking into the garden. His brother was sat, with his back to them with a laptop in front of him and some files. To the side of his laptop was a cup of tea, with a pot beside it. He had not yet eaten, that much was obvious.

“We’ll join my brother, he’s the gentleman by the window.” Sherlock interrupted.

The waiter looked slightly flustered but nodded and picked up two black leather-bound menus.

“It looks as though he’s working,” John said in low voice. “We shouldn’t disturb him.”

“You forget, he could never say no to his niece,” Sherlock smirked.

Mycroft didn’t bother to look up as his brother, Doctor Watson and niece approached. He merely closed his laptop and watched in the window as they came up behind him. “Joining me.”

Sherlock flashed him a smile in the glass and took the seat opposite him. It was strategic placing, Mycroft in front of the window with his eyes on the entire restaurant while his back was to them. “Well, you seem lonely, brother mine.”

“I’ve yet to order.”

“Obvious.”

John rolled his eyes at the brothers as he took a seat between them, placing the pram between him and Sherlock so that he had an eye on his sleeping daughter. She shifted slightly but remained asleep.

“So, what’s good?” John asked, opening up his menu.

“It depends, what are you in the mood for?” Sherlock said, not really all that interested.

“He wants a sandwich, Sherlock.” Mycroft’s melodic tone practically sung as he reopened his laptop.

“I hate you both,” John muttered under his breath knowing full well that they could both hear him.

 

* * *

 

Sherlock positioned Maeve to sit on his legs, with his hand beneath her chin supporting her sleepy head as he rubbed her back through the baby grow. Her eyes drooped lazily as though being awake was far too much effort but she continued to blink, as though the movement pained her. After a few moments, Sherlock pulled Maeve back to sit against his chest so that she was supported and her head was just poking above the table. Sherlock picked up one of the crisps on his plate and popped it into his mouth.

John, much to Sherlock’s annoyance, was thrilled to see the consulting detective eating even if it was interrupted by Maeve’s lunch. It was only a steak and rocket baguette with some crisps and side salad but the consulting detective was prone to eating less than a meal a day, so seeing him eat lunch, with a dinner later during the gala, pleased John immensely. He didn’t say anything when Sherlock nicked a chip from his plate, he just raised an eyebrow.

“What, pray tell, are you going to do with your day?” Mycroft asked, breaking the comfortable silence and looking up long enough turn the page of the case file he was on.

“I’ve been informed that the gardens are rather lovely, a stroll may be in order.”

“Father found you then.” Mycroft’s lips pulled into a half-smile.

“Yes, he apologised in advance should we happen upon mother.” Sherlock jiggled his knee up and down to keep the infant on his lap entertained a while longer.

“I had the ….pleasure of bumping into her earlier.” Mycroft flashed a slimy smile.

“I suppose it will be easier,” Sherlock sighed as if it was a hardship, “having Maeve with me at all time.”

“Cunning,” Mycroft nodded, picking up his tea cup.

Sherlock smirked.

“The pinnacle of fatherhood, using your daughter as a protective shield against a mother,” John added.

“What else would I use her for?” Sherlock asked mirthfully, lifting his daughter up slightly so that she could see both her Papa and her Uncle. She gurgled at the movement.

“I don’t know,” John admitted.

“Did you purchase the dress I suggested?” Mycroft asked.

“I found something else,” Sherlock answered.

“I look forward to seeing it,” Mycroft said in a tone that might suggest, to one that did not know him quite so well, that he was incredibly bored but to the consulting detective and army doctor, was a tone of genuine curiosity and excitement.

 

* * *

 

The gardens were, as foretold, lovely. There was a nip in the air, nothing to be concerned about, but enough to warrant Maeve wearing a white fleece jacket with little ears which John called ‘adorable’ and made them buy last week. She also had on some fingerless white gloves and a pale yellow blanket that cocooned her body. She was asleep, again, and her breath came out softly in even intervals. She was resting in John’s arms as they loitered in the gardens, occasionally point out things that caught the eye – like flowers miraculously still alive and birds floating in the air. There was even a robin nest that took Sherlock’s fancy.

After about thirty minutes of wandering pretty aimlessly, they decided to return to the room.

Sherlock settled Maeve back on the bed.

“Would you like to shower first?” John asked.

“Be my guest.” Sherlock gestured towards the bathroom.

 

* * *

 

 

“Just remember,” Sherlock whispered to Maeve as they approached the ballroom. “Your grandmother loves you, she just gets fussy at this kind of events.”

Maeve babbled incoherently in response.

“Yes,” Sherlock responded as though she had actually answered him.

Maeve was resting in his arms, looking outwards as he held her with one strong arm against her torso and the other was hooked beneath her legs, putting her in an upright sitting position. She wore a simple but beautiful dress made from ruby red fabric. The top was designed to mimic the pattern of roses and reached to the middle of her stomach, there was a sliver of golden fabric designed to look as though it were a belt and the skirt, made of tulle in the same rich red colour, was a glittering layered skirt that reached just above her ankles in this position. Her feet were clad in a pair of gold glittery shoes with elastic fastenings to keep them on, beneath them she wore a pair of white socks with lace trim. The outfit was tied together by a simple headband of gold fabric made to mimic a fig leaf crown.

“She looks beautiful,” John told him.

Sherlock fought back the smile that threatened to appear on his lips.

His own suit was a simple and elegant black with a glossy finish that was stylish and fitting for the event considering he wore only a burgundy shirt beneath it, open at the collar, no tie. He was sure his mother would have something to say about that but he’d fight that battle when it came. John’s suit was different. What brought the outfit together, Sherlock thought, was the charcoal baby bag that was hooked over his shoulder.

“So, what happens now?” John asked.

“We show my mother we are here, she’ll fuss then we can, hopefully, find somewhere to hide until dinner.”

“Right, so the same as any other event.” The blonde jested.

Sherlock glanced at John. He was, in Sherlock’s opinion, the best-dressed man in the room. It was an excellent choice of suit. His tailor had done an excellent job in flattering the shorter man. It was a suit made from a red and black houndstooth fabric with a crisp white shirt, deep blue tie and a green pocket handkerchief that shouldn’t have offset the suit as much as it did but somehow worked. It also brought out the doctor’s eyes. The suit wasn’t something the ex-army doctor was accustomed to wearing but it made him look rather dashing. Sherlock had to admit it was a rather fetching choice.  

They followed a crowd of people into a line that ran past his mother and father, and other members of the board that organised these events. Sherlock bit back his annoyance at the situation and allowed his eyes to wander over the ballroom, he could see his mother’s hand in the decoration. It was elegant, tasteful and completely understated, much like the woman herself. The entire room, bar the floor and painting on the stage were shrouded in cream fabric with pale shimmering grey accents and slivers of silver. The only colours were from the flowers in the centre of the tables at the side of the room and stood on pillars at the corners of the dance floor. They were white and purple with dull green leaves. His mother was currently in the centre of the room wearing a pale silver dress made from silk and lace. Her hair, which matched the dress’s colour perfectly, was pulled into an elegant twist fastened with a crescent-shaped silver clip with an amethyst pendant that dangled just below her hair. There were two strands of hair on either side of her face which were curled tightly. His father wore a suit two shades darker than her dress with a tie that matched his wives outfit perfectly. The tie clip, which was wonky, had a stone the same colour as her hair clip.

“So, what normally happens at these events?” John asked from his side.

“Useless chatter. Speeches. Some sort of auction where people compete to be the higher bidder to seem the most charitable. Dinner. Dancing. It’s all dreadfully dull.”

“Well, it doesn’t sound too bad. Should we wait?” He gestured to the consulting detective's parents.

Sherlock, not one to wait in line, ushered John to the front ignoring the shocked looks.

“Oh Siger, do straighten your tie pin.” Violent scolded the rather dazed-looking man as she turned to greet some new arrivals.

Mycroft was already in a corner making small talk with an older woman that Sherlock recognised from previous events. He looked up at his brother and gave a small, almost unnoticeable nod of reassurance. Sherlock nodded to himself and tightened to grip ever so slightly on Maeve. She was babbling enthusiastically in his arms. Sherlock’s eyes flicked from Mycroft to his parents. Mycroft excused himself from the conversation he was in, polite as ever, and made his way to his brother. He was a simple black tux and held a full champagne flute.

Violent looked up and noticed her sons.

“Sherlock.” She smiled at him as she noticed Maeve.

“Mummy.” He muttered.

Siger nodded in greeting as the person he was talking to walked away.

“She looks precious,” Violet announced.

“Yes,” Sherlock agreed, uninterested as ever. He held the infant out, offering her to his mother. She took her and pulled her close, eyes wandering over her small body. Her eyes then settled properly on her son.

“You’re not even wearing a tie.” Her tone was more disapproval than disappointment.

“Shocking.” Sherlock feigned the emotion.

“Don’t be smart Sherlock.” She warned gently.

“I am _smart_ ,” he said simply.

“Yes, but you’re not the smart one.” Siger reminded him.

“Oh yes, how could I possibly forget?” Sherlock rolled his eyes.

Maeve’s babbled reached a peak.

“Alright, that’s enough from you,” John said to the infant.

“Oh, she’s allowed to be loud, aren’t you?” Violent said, watching the infant.

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed.

Violet raised her eyebrows. “Shocked?”

“Vaguely surprised.” He admitted.

“She’s a baby Sherlock, you can hardly control her behaviour and nor should you.”

“Can I take her?” Mycroft cleared his throat.

“Yes.” Sherlock and his mother said at the same time.

John smirked and Mycroft stepped around his brother and the doctor. He took the infant from his mother and placed her so that they were eye-level. A smile appeared on her face and she released a small giggle before babbling again. Mycroft’s own lips pulled into a tiny smile.

“Don’t go wandering off again. I expect you to mingle.” Violet told them all.

“Of course Mummy,” Mycroft assured as he leaned in to kiss her cheek.

“Creep,” Sherlock muttered.

“I heard that.”

  

* * *

 

 

Mycroft, with the assistance of Maeve, ended up in the centre of a rather large group of people, mostly women that were practically fighting for his attention. It was obvious that Maeve was the reason that they had migrated towards him but Mycroft being an eligible bachelor, to their knowledge, didn’t deter their attention in the slightest. It was, in Sherlock’s opinion, rather incredible how his brother was able to blend into the group without the slightest clue that he loathed the entire situation, like a chameleon changing his colour in order to stalk its prey. He was a master of disguise, not like the consulting detective himself, but rather the persona he displayed at all time, unable to shut it off.

The group surrounding the auburn-haired man and infant was mainly women, some with their partners but most alone. One particular woman, a blonde in a sparkling gold dress was cooing at the baby.

“You must love being an uncle,” she said, straightening up to look at the government official.

“It comes with its perks.”

“And difficulties, I’m sure.” She sipped her champagne.

“Yes,” he nodded.

“Your brother must be beside himself.”

“How so?”

“Oh, you know, fitting fatherhood alongside a career. It’s not an easy task, I imagine.”

“He’s handling it rather admirably.” Mycroft jiggled his niece slightly and she cooed in response, a sound not dissimilar to a pigeon on the hunt for food. He shot her a look of mild fascination.

“I’m sure, he always has had his own ways of doing things.”

“That’s putting it mildly,” his lips pulled into a grim smile.

“Do you spend a lot of time with her then?” the blonde reached for the baby and tickled at her palm.

“As much as I can.”

“It can’t be easy not with your career.”

“It’s no hardship to sacrifice my time for her.”

“You are a busy man.” Mycroft merely nodded his head ever so slightly. “I’ve never had kids myself but I can imagine that they are quite time-consuming, even when they’re your niece.”

Mycroft was close to a retort about the obviousness of her single, childless existence when his mother swooped in, probably sensing his need to be rescued. “Mycroft, I’ve been searching for you, your brother is fussing about a lost blanket or toy, and perhaps you should help him find it.”

Mycroft apologised to his mother and the blonde as he ducked out of the group and headed towards the corner of the room. His brother and John Watson were next to a window talking in a low tone, his brother was deducing people in their vicinity for the doctor’s entertainment. He rolled his eyes.

“Mummy saved you then,” Sherlock said with far too much amusement.

“Yes, just in time.”

“I feared she was about to proposition you,” he looked disgusted.

“Not in front of the baby.” John frowned.

“Quite.” Mycroft agreed, wrinkling his nose.

He shifted Maeve higher into his arms. She sniffed and began to babble.

“When will this night be over?” Sherlock asked, eyes shifting to the ceiling.

Mycroft raised an eyebrow and shot a look at John.

  

* * *

 

 

Maeve was absolutely absorbed in her own world, kicking her legs out in short fast movements that jiggled the wooden high-chair that the hotel had provided. Her hands were fiddling with the small plastic toys on the tray in front of her and she babbled in a steady, melodic way that almost imitated singing. It was beautiful and loud. There were a few people at the table glancing in disapproval but they were stopped short by his mother or father meeting their gaze and starting a new, rather dull conversation. He knew that they were doing it to stop a scene, to protect the gala from him but he appreciated the gesture even if he had deduced some scandalous ammunition. Maeve’s shriek signalled her impatience at not being fed quicker. Sherlock shot her a feign scandalised look, the corner of his mouth turning up in amusement as he scooped up some food, or as John called it, mush. It was a savoury mixture of sweet potato and carrot that she seemed to enjoy. He offered her some and watched as she swallowed the end of the yellow spoon eagerly. He pulled out the spoon sans food glad that he’d chosen a bib with sleeves to protect her outfit from the orange mush.

John edges closer to her and with his middle finger swiped away a small blob at the corner of her mouth, instead of wiping it away he placed the tip of his finger at the seam of her lips. She opened her mouth, accepting both the food and her finger and bit down with her gums. “We don’t want you to waste any.”

Sherlock looked down at his lap to avoid the smile that was threatening to form on his lips.

“She’s not far off real food,” John said, eyebrow-raising ever so slightly.

Sherlock hummed in response and offered his daughter the last spoonful of food. Without asking, John unstrapped and picked up the baby so that she was sat on his lap, his hand beneath his chin and began rubbing her back in the patient manner they always did after she’d eaten a meal. It wasn’t the same as milk but it helped with any wind. When he was satisfied that she was fine he took the bottle from Sherlock, it was merely a top up after her food but she accepted the teat and started drink.

Sherlock picked at his meal, occasionally forking a piece of meat or a carrot but his attention was focused on the ex-army doctor and his daughter.

“Sherlock,” his father’s voice roused him from his staring.

Sherlock frowned and turned to his father. The older man was watching him with curious eyes.

“You don’t have to eat anymore.” He said as though he was talking to a small child.

“I know.” Sherlock’s eyes narrowed.

“Right,” his father nodded.

Sherlock placed the fork on his plate and placed both his hands on his knee. He sighed, “Well, this is tedious.”

“A few speeches, an hour or so of mingling and then you can slink off.”

“I don’t slink.” He enunciated.

“Of course you don’t,” his mother defended as she turned towards another guest and struck up a conversation.

  

* * *

 

 

Sherlock placed his sleeping daughter in the centre of the rather large hotel bed. She was still wearing her evening dress but the shoes and headband had been stripped off for comfort and there was a blanket around her small body. He sighed, monitoring her face for any sign of disturbance when there was none he turned and stepped through the archway into the sitting area of their room. John was facing away from him, looking out the window at the gardens below shrouded in moonlight. Sherlock walked up behind him. John turned to face him as the consulting detective placed his head on the shorter man’s shoulder and wrapped his arms around his middle.

“She sleeping?”

“Uh-huh.”

“We need to change her.” Sherlock nodded. “Do you want me to do it?”

“Let’s stay here a moment longer,” Sherlock muttered.

The only sound in the room was their mingled breath as they stared through the window and the soft snores of Maeve, sleeping soundly on the bed.


	56. One Hundred and Seventy Days Old

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Teething problems.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a short and sweet chapter with some uncle Mycroft and daddy Sherlock, I hope you enjoy it. Next up is some Halloween stuff, late I know but what can I say? It's been slow work but I'm dedicated to bringing this fic back from the dead and finishing it once and for all.

Sherlock as the master of his domain, he knew the moment a client walked towards the door or Mrs Hudson had moved something on her cleaning rampage. So, when his brother strolled into the flat as though he owned the place Sherlock was fully aware of his presence but he was preoccupied. His attention was fixed on his daughter; Maeve was dressed in a simple grey tracksuit ensemble sans jumper, her soft cheeks were a deep red like a plum tomato and salvia was practically pouring from her mouth. His hand was resting on her chin and two long fingers were in her mouth, keeping it slightly open as he shone his phone’s torch through the gap, searching for the teeth that were threatening to break through. Mycroft said nothing as he placed his umbrella against the red armchair and took off his jacket foreseeing the spilling of milk, mashed vegetables of salvia on the deep grey material. He placed it on the back of the chair and stepped further into the room as Sherlock pulled the torch and his fingers from her mouth. Maeve pulled a face somewhere between annoyance and pain, Sherlock used his thumb to smooth over her hot cheek and whispered, “shhhhh.”

Sherlock pushed himself into a sitting position and peeled her out of her new chair. It was an odd little seat designed to sit on the floor, made of a soft purple material that clutched onto her making it impossible for her to fall out. He held her close to his body, high up so that her face was level with his and turned to face his brother for the first time since he’d walked in.

“Shall I make my own tea then?”

“If you want tea,” Sherlock forced a smile.

“Testy, brother mine.”

“You come in like you own the place, you can make your own tea.”

“I do pay the rent,” Mycroft reminded him.

“Half the rent,” Sherlock corrected him smugly.

“Ahh yes, where is Doctor Watson?”

“He’s doing some overtime at the clinic but you already knew that.”

Mycroft perches on the arm of John’s chair and looked up at his brother. “Teething trouble.”

“There’s a tooth almost poking through.”

“She seems …” he peered at the infant, “in a good temper.”

“She had calpol twenty-seven minutes ago.”

“Let’s hope it lasts,” Mycroft said more to himself than to his brother.

“Well,” Sherlock handed his daughter to the auburn-haired man, “I have errands to run.”

The older man shifted the infant so that her legs were either side of his body and her hands were clutching at his shirt on his chest and back, her eyes wandering over her uncle as though he were the most interesting thing she'd seen all day and he was. “Leaving us to it, then.” He said with a smile.

“You’re more than capable,” Sherlock cleared his throat and reached for the coat on the door.

Mycroft hummed and focused on his niece's eyes. It didn’t take a genius to notice that they had been settling over the past few weeks but now, they were almost the exact image of Sherlock’s eyes. The once pure blue irises were now a vibrant mixture of blue and green that shone almost golden as she moved her head towards the windows, hearing the sound of a siren past by the house. He had no doubt that the colour would continue to shift, like an artist’s pallet smeared with colour, much like her fathers. The only feature she lacked was the small dark pinprick beside the pupil. As she turned back to Mycroft, he met her eyes and a smile crept onto her face.

“It isn’t exactly a shock, is it?” Sherlock’s voice pulled him from his musings.

“No,” Mycroft admitted, he had suspected as much since she was born.

“A rather fetching look on her.”

“She’s beautiful,” Mycroft whispered.

Sherlock nodded his head and caressed the side of his daughter’s face in a silent goodbye before ducking out of the flat. Mycroft, left alone with his niece, smiled and gestured towards the array of toys littering the sofa, “what shall we play with today?”

Maeve released a steady stream of’ sounds.

“Awww, the dolphin, I agree.”

  

* * *

 

 

Sherlock’s visit to his homeless network provided fruitful, he’d recruited two more members both of which were very young and tough-talking, with phones and some sandwiches, they were hopping off to do his bidding. He knew that they were in good hands with some of the veterans of his network looking after them. There had been no changes to the routines of his markers that warranted his concern. So, with the knowledge that he was in good hands he returned to the flat with a bag of shopping that John had been nagging him to buy with all his free time. It was the essentials bread, honey, milk, baby formula and some apples. He stepped into the kitchen as his brother lifted the spoon of mashed carrots to his daughter’s lips. She pursed them and refused to accept the food. If the state of her orange smeared bib was anything to go by, she’d been more than difficult.

“Having trouble, brother mine,” Sherlock observes, placing the bag on the table.

Mycroft glanced over his shoulder, grey eyes scanning over his younger brother, reading the day’s events from each crease in his coat and suit. He sniffed softly and turned back to the infant, “she is not in the mood for crushed carrots, apparently.”

“No, she’s just trying to get a rise from you.”

“I realise that.”

Sherlock stepped around the chair his brother was sitting on and settled his daughter with a stern look which resulted in a wide, open mouth smile. Her gums shone with salvia and small pieces of the crushed carrot.

“You are a monster,” Sherlock said in a serious tone.

Mycroft raised his brow minutely, surprised that his brother was able to keep up such a façade around her.

“You need to eat your vegetables, they’re good for you. Afterwards, you can have some milk.” Maeve babbled enthusiastically. “Yes, now let your uncle feed you. Then you can have a nice long sleep and some more calpol, deal?”

He raised his hand and brought it towards her, Maeve raised her own hand and he took it within his palm shaking it as one might with a businessman on closing a deal. He stepped back and shed his coat. Mycroft raised a spoon to her mouth, this time she accepted the food and chewed on the mushed food as though it were a whole carrot. The hard lines that seemed to stain Mycroft’s face nowadays softened slightly leaving slight wrinkles on the skin, like those in books when pages were folded for too long.


	57. One Hundred and Eighty-One Days Old

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Halloween is here at Baker Street.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I finally feel like I'm back on top of my writing and with some time, dedication and a little chapter reshuffling they'll be Christmas chapters for Christmas, I'm excited about this, I hope you are too. I really can't thank you all enough for sticking with me over the past year because I had such a tough time and writing really took the back seat but seeing your lovely comments at the end of each chapter really means the world and inspires me to continue writing. So, thank you for being the best readers ever and I hope that you enjoy this chapter and the chapters to come. 
> 
> In terms of how the rest of this fic is going to go, after the Christmas lead up and chapters, I'm going to fast forward a little bit because Maeve is almost six months old and I have less than half a fic till I finish. But fear not, I'll cover all the important moments and then, there will be a follow on.

**_Monday_ **

“What on earth have you done John?” Sherlock demanded as he strolled out of the bedroom wearing nothing but some silk pyjama bottoms despite the October chill. He stopped dead next to the fridge and crossed his arms over his chest. His eyes widened at the sight unfolding in front of him. John was stood on the threshold between the living room and kitchen dressed in some plain jeans and a dark blue jumper with small dots of coloured fabric within the wool. Maeve was sat on his hip having just had her breakfast and been burped wearing, what Sherlock could only describe as a monstrosity.

“Oh, come on,” John frowned, “it’s cute.”

“It’s hideous.”

“You’re being dramatic.”

The offending outfit was a simple pale orange baby grow with a cartoon pumpkin on it, the skirt if you could call it that, was a darker orange tutu. It even had matching socks.

 “It’s not even Halloween yet,” Sherlock said.

“It is on Sunday.” John reminded him as if he needed reminding.

“I’m not leaving the flat with her dressed like that.”

“Before you know it she’ll be too old to dress up, we might as well take advantage of it now.”

“One more word and I’ll go back to bed.” The consulting detective warned.

“You want to go to the zoo as much as I do, so get dressed.”

“Fine, but I won’t be happy about it.” Sherlock stormed off into the bedroom.

“You never are,” the blonde called after him as he juggled the infant on his hip. He looked down at her, “yeah, you have a silly daddy.”

  

* * *

 

 

Sherlock watched John look up from the ground to the unoccupied face painting booth beneath a beach umbrella and sniffed, “she’s too young for face paint.”

John frowned.

“No,” Sherlock raised one eyebrow and reminded him, “I cannot read your mind.”

“What’s the harm?”

“Allergic reaction, itching, permanent scarring.”

“Don’t you think you’re overreacting?”

“No,” Sherlock came to a halt. His tone was serious.

“A little tiny bit of face paint.”

“No.”

“It’s hardly going to be a fun memory with you saying no to everything.”

“I do not say no to everything.”

“You Sherlock Holmes are a fun sucker.”

“Fun sucker,” Sherlock repeated, both annoyed and offended at the accusation.

“Uh-huh.” John went to continue walking.

Sherlock reached for him. “Fine but you have to get something too or no deal.”

“What? You don’t want my first born child as payment.” John said with a pleased smile.

“The likelihood of you having children is exceedingly slim.”

“Not impossible?”

“Not entirely, there are factors which result in you having children.”

“Well, until then, I guess I’ll just have to get a butterfly painted on my cheek.” His smile widened.

Sherlock found himself smiling too, “until then.”

  

* * *

 

 

“I still think you should have got the butterfly,” Sherlock smirked. He was holding Maeve close to his chest, she was now wearing some leggings with her outfit and a light grey coat with ears on the hood. On her head was a grey hat to match her coat, Sherlock frowned and pulled the hat further down her head so that it covered her ears once more.

“Not sure it would have suited me.” The woman painting the ex-army doctors face smirked to herself and continued work, painting some daisies around his eye. Sherlock pursed his lips. “What are you going to get for her?”

Sherlock sat in the free chair on the opposite side to John and positioned Maeve on his lap.

“So, what will it be?” The other woman asked.

 

* * *

 

 

Sherlock stopped in front of the penguin enclosure and pointed at the small penguins that were sleeping on the surface beside the water. Maeve seemed to follow his direction and peered at the small creatures.

“Penguins,” he told her.

Maeve babbled loudly and bashed her hands against his chest enthusiastically.

“Yes, your daddy likes penguins,” John told her. They stayed like that for a few moments more. “What should we go and see now? Huh, what do you fancy?”

Maeve babbled in response.

“Yes, I want to see the lions too.”

 

 

**_Tuesday_ **

Sherlock’s phone buzzed on the table, illuminating his new screensaver: a picture of the three of them at the zoo, John with his daises and Maeve with a small pumpkin and green vines across one cheek. It was taken from an upward angle and despite his protests, Sherlock took the picture because his arms were the longest. He glanced at the screen and relocked the phone without so much as looking at the message. It was a group of pictures from a new member of his homeless network, nothing too important, it was a test after all but he was certain that they had passed with flying colours which meant they could now work on an actual case.

Maeve was babbling to herself from the floor. Today she wore a black baby grow that covered both her arms and legs, on the material was a white skeleton print. The material was now covered in cat that due to the cat that was walking around the infant, rubbing her body against her at all available turns as she purred to herself. The cat stopped, licked her paw three times and then collapsed onto her side, her back touching Maeve’s right leg and closed her eyes in an attempt to sleep.

Maeve, on the other hand, was not ready for sleep in the slightest. She was too occupied with the toys surrounding her and the mission of turning onto her front which she was beginning to master. Sherlock sat back and scanned the online Telegraph while keeping a weathered eye on her. Soon, all his attention would need to be on her at all times once she was moving. The thought was both thrilling and terrifying. She was already growing up so fast. He cleared his throat and glanced at Maeve as she contorted her body so that she was on her front instead of her back. The cat looked up but sensing there was no danger, she closed her eyes and drifted off to sleep.

 

**_Wednesday_ **

“For goodness sake.” Sherlock blurted out the moment he clapped eyes on his daughter.

John looked up from his lunch and smiled around his mouthful of food.

“Really?” Sherlock waved a hand in the direction of his daughter. She was playing with a set of plastic keys in her chair on the floor beside John wearing a baby grow that imitated a witches costume. It was black and purple, the legs were purple and white stripes and fastened to her head was a small hat that fastened around her chin. She looked up at him with a confused expression but quickly decided that it was nothing to concern her and went back to pulling the keys.

“Come on, it’s adorable.”

“She looks ridiculous,” Sherlock pinched the bridge of his nose.

“It’s cute Sherlock.”

“I’ve told you, I’m not taking her out dressed like that.”

“Funny, you’ll be having this exact argument with her in about fourteen years.

“John!”

John bit back a smirk. “Sorry but it’s true. Right now, she can’t dress herself so we might as well dress her in cute stuff now before it’s too late, it’ll make good pictures.”

“I’m going downstairs.” Sherlock strode from the room.

“Get me a coffee,” John shouted after him, he might as well get a decent coffee from the café if he were going down there.

  

* * *

 

 

“I take it my brother does not approve of this attire,” Mycroft said with a small grim smile.

John pulled the infant to his chest as he placed her coat on the chair opposite Mycroft’s desk. He had taken the hat off as per Sherlock’s request but the outfit remained. “Not at all.”

“I appreciate you bringing her here,” Mycroft said in the same voice one might greet a politician.

“Yes,” John said with a small nod, “it’s a change of scenery, that’s for sure.”

The Diogenes club, despite its silence, was a rather warm place. This office, in particular, was something that one would find in a Victorian novel but it suited Mycroft through and through.

“I’ll escort her home personally,” Mycroft shifted some important looking papers into order and placed them in a perfect pile as he stood up. John kissed Maeve on the cheek and passed her over the desk to her uncle.

 

**_Thursday_ **

In a promising term of events, Maeve had been sick on the orange pumpkin baby grow that John had selected for the day leaving nothing but normal clothes for her to wear or else it would spoil the surprise of tomorrows outfit. Sherlock ran his hand down her clothed back. “I didn’t like that outfit either,” he whispered to her.

“I heard that,” John grumbled.

“You were meant to.”

“Have you got a costume for the party?”

“Party?” Sherlock’s brow furrowed.

“Don’t pretend you don’t know what I’m talking about. Greg sent you an invitation months ago.” Sherlock pursed his lips and rubbed circles into his daughters back. “He’s mentioned it at almost every crime scene for the past two months.”

“Oh, that party.”

“Yes, that party. Mr I remember everything.”

“I don’t remember everything,” Sherlock argued.

“Well, you remember this party.”

“I’m not dressing up.”

“It’s a Halloween party.”

“I’m fully aware,” Sherlock blinked rapidly for a second.

“You have to dress up.”

“It would be out of character.”

“Ruin your reputation?” John raised an eyebrow.

“Exactly, now you’re understanding.”

 

**_Friday_ **

Sherlock had grown adept at walking the streets of London. He knew the right turns and places to avoid, and most importantly, he knew how to navigate a crowd. But now, with a buggy navigating the streets came with its own rewards, the majority of people would move out of his way. Occasionally he would be stuck behind a man too absorbed in his failing marriage and affairs to move out of his way, these men, he learnt, were some of the worse idiots in the city. Today, he weaved his way through the crowds with purpose. He stopped when he reached some police tape cordoning off a small shop, the site of a robbery turn murder. A young policeman noticed him and lifted the tape high enough for him to step beneath it with his buggy.

Maeve was sleeping, her small fists curled up in mittens he’d wrestled onto her hands. She was wearing another insane outfit courtesy of John, it was a simple plain white baby grow with orange pumpkin trousers and a matching hat. He doubted it was the last of the Halloween outfits but it wasn’t as bad as the outfit from the previous day. He considered himself lucky for that and the small mercy of a winter coat and blanket which covered the majority of the ensemble.

“Sherlock,” Lestrade greeted as he walked out of the crime scene.

“Lestrade,” Sherlock nodded in return.

“I thought you’d be interested in this one.” Greg peeled the covers from his shoes and walked over to the consulting detective, he peeked at the sleeping infant, his face softening slightly but there was no diminishing the coldness in his eyes that came with every single crime scene.

“Yes, robbery murder, how interesting.” Sherlock feigned boredom.

“It’s a little more complicated than that.” Lestrade scratched the back of his head.

Sherlock raised his eyebrow in a ‘please elaborate’ gesture.

“Well, it seemed like an open and shut robbery. We have the suspect, he’s back at the station. 45-year-old Bradley Fisher, he lost his job and the wife denied him access to the kids, this was a last-ditch attempt to get so money not that it did him any good, the café hasn’t been running at a profit for a while now, it’s weeks from closing down. The owner, he gave him the money but also, he used a baseball bat to knock him out.”

“I’m failing to see the _m_ urder in this case.”

“Exactly, the owner called us, some PCs checked the scene and found a body out back.”

“Unconnected.”

“Seems like it but there’s no way to know for certain, we haven’t got a positive ID yet.”

“Fingerprints.”

“Haven’t produced anything yet but we’re running a wider search now, hoping to turn something out.”

Sherlock nodded. “How were they killed?”

“There’s significant blunt force trauma to the back of the head but signs of knife wounds to the arms and torso.” He explained.

“Slashes? Stab wounds?”

“Not quite sure, they’re erratic but there’s no sign that he fought back. We’ll see more in the autopsy.”

“Shall I have a look then?” Lestrade frowned. “What?”

“You’re normally not so …. Polite,” Greg said, clearing his throat.

“Well, you either want me to look or not.”

“Yes, I want you to look. Come on.”

 

**_Saturday_ **

The party was all Sherlock feared it would be; an excuse to get drunk. There was a punch that was being drained rather quickly despite the early hour and people were chatting loudly, some were even singing along to the disturbing Halloween playlist that had been selected. Sherlock was stood near Lestrade’s office eagerly awaiting his chance to leave as John told a joke that he’d picked up in the army to a group of rowdy detectives. He occasionally glanced over his shoulder at the consulting detective as though he was scared that he was just going to disappear.

Greg came out of his office and placed his hand on Sherlock’s shoulder. “Alright?”

Sherlock nodded and held Maeve a tiny bit closer to his body.

“That’s a cute outfit.” He gestured to the outfit that Maeve was wearing, it was similar to the ones she’d been wearing all week but made of a white material with the face of a ghost on it and a tutu. She wore a purple hat on her head that matched the fake belt of her outfit and the stripy tights she wore.

“Yes, one of John’s many attempts to display his love for Halloween.”

“He does know that Halloween is the perfect time of year for weirdos on crime sprees.”

“Well, apparently he’s chosen to ignore it.”

“You were pretty impressive yesterday.”

“It was open and shut.”

“Yeah but you solved it in like a minute.”

“Fifty-four seconds.” He corrected. Maeve shifted slightly against him, not quite asleep yet.

“Hardly blog material even if you were impressive.”

“Hardly,” Sherlock agreed. He looked at the floor for a moment before looking back up and meeting the detective inspector’s eyes. “When was the last time you saw my brother.”

“We’re taking a bit of a break,” Greg said sheepishly, he scratched the back of his head and look at the floor.

Sherlock’s eyes flicked over him. “I’m fully aware.”

“Well you knew this was going to happen, you said so when we first started…you know.” He shrugged and looked up at the younger man. “It just wasn’t meant to be, I guess. So you don’t have to tell me ‘I told you so’ because I know.”

Sherlock frowned and paused in his ministrations, he dropped his hand from his daughter’s back and placed it instead on her backside, supporting her as she drooped against his front. “I was going to say,” he cleared his throat, “that I’m sorry.”

“You have nothing to be sorry about,” Greg assured him, raising a hand to the shoulder that was sans Maeve and squeezed. “It’s nothing to do with you, you know that right?”

“I’m aware but the addition of Maeve into the family unit is an upheaval.”

“No,” he shook his head, “it’s nothing to do with that. It’s more about our…”

“Busy schedules.” Sherlock supplied.

“Something like that.”

“Without intruding,” Sherlock ignored Greg’s shocked expression, “you’re both idiots.”

Greg snorted.

“You were both fully aware of the situation going into this relationship but now you’re both giving up. My brother will never be with anybody else after you.”

“You really think that?”

“It took him long enough to find you he’s not going to wait to find somebody better because there is nobody better for him than you, you are his…you’re going to make me say it, aren’t you?” Sherlock swallowed hard, “soulmate.”

“I didn’t know you believed in such things,” Greg said, far too amused at the situation.

“I think it’s a ridiculous notion but I can’t deny the science behind it. You are well suited to one another. Who else could put up with the hours you keep? Your wife couldn’t. And who else could put up with him jetting off for unknown countries with a minutes notice? You work because your careers are what guide you both and the rest fit in between that, like a puzzle piece.”

“You think so?”

“Yes.”

“So, what should I do?”

“Buy him some fancy chocolates and tell him you,” he glanced down at the almost sleeping infant and lowered his voice, “fucked up and you’re sorry.”

Greg nodded. “You know you can leave.”

“Not for another forty-six minutes and seven seconds.”

“John?”

“Yes.”

“You’ve got a good one there.”

“I’m fully aware.”

  

* * *

 

 

It was dark when they climbed the stairs of the flat. The only source of light was from the Halloween themed fairy lights that John had scattered on the mantelpiece, they were shaped like ghosts and shone with a yellow hue. Mrs Hudson had also taken the liberty of lighting a carved pumpkin on the coffee table with two steaming mugs of hot chocolate. Sherlock sniffed, detecting the faint hint of pumpkin in the hot chocolate. He had no doubt that it was from the pumpkin spiced Bailey’s she’d bought from the shop earlier that day.

John shed his jacket and peeled the infant out of her car seat. She frowned in her sleep. John ran his hand down her back and nodded towards the stairs. Sherlock gave a brisk nod in confirmation and the ex-army doctor took the baby to her bedroom. He sat in his chair and clicked on the monitor beside him, he was greeted with the image of John placing Maeve in her bed. She was already sound asleep. He stared at the screen, monitoring her for any signs of waking but there were none. The cat, which was waiting in her room, jumped into the cot beside her and curled up at her feet.

Sherlock’s eyes flicked to John as he reached the bottom of the stairs with a lopsided smile.

“Want to watch a movie?”

Sherlock gave a small nod.

“Any recommendations?”

“Whatever you fancy,” Sherlock told him.

“A horror movie, then.” John decided he selected one from the pile rapidly forming beside the old newspapers and handed it to Sherlock to sort out while he quickly changed into some pyjamas and made some popcorn to accompany their hot chocolates. They sat together on the sofa with a blanket over their legs, one of which was hooked over the others while the black and white film played.

 

**_Sunday_ **

The notion of a family tradition at Halloween probably seemed ridiculous to most British families, yes it was celebrated but not to the same extent that the American’s seemed to celebrate. Sherlock had always thought Halloween was fascinating and his passion for dressing up as a kid, though long gone, was something he always remembered at this time of year. He had once gone trick or treating with his brother around the houses closest to theirs and now, that tradition was being repeated with his daughter thought they were not going to stranger’s houses. They were doing the rounds, so to speak, visiting the immediate family which in this case meant his mother and father. In the absence of sweets, they were gifting her with some toys.

 Sherlock knocked on his mother’s door.

Maeve babbled enthusiastically as though she remembered the door and turned to her father. He smiled at her and she continued babbling in the way she had become accustomed to, a steady stream of ‘d’ sounds which teased at Sherlock’s ears. He was sure that she was close to saying ‘daddy.’

The door swung open to reveal his mother dressed in a black and orange ensemble that practically streamed Halloween. In her hand was a plastic pumpkin with small toys inside.

“Hello,” she cooed at Maeve. Maeve kicked her legs against Sherlock’s torso. “Come in out of the cold.”

Sherlock stepped into his mother’s house, his father peaked his head through the kitchen door in greeting and quickly disappeared again. He stopped and wrestled the coat from her small body revealing a costume that, in Sherlock’s opinion, outweighed the others. This costume was a bee outfit that fit over the top of her black baby grow covering her torso and head with a hood. There were even wings that stuck to the back once her coat had been taken off.

“Ohhh,” his mother’s eyes teared up, “she looks beautiful.”

“Well,” Sherlock cleared his throat, “it’s an improvement on the other costumes.”

“I saved the best till last,” John said from behind the consulting detective.

“Small mercies.”


	58. Two Hundred and Three Days Old

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Working a case as a full-time parent is easy, right?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've just realised that I've got five chapters to do in the next month and that's terrifying, right? I'm sure as hell terrified but I've challenged myself and I'm determined to do it, so get ready.

At two hundred and three days old, Maeve was able to flip onto her body in a swift movement that shocked and delighted her parents every time they saw it. She was also starting to shuffle which was, according to Sherlock’s extensive research, a sure sign that crawling wasn’t far away which resulted in a trip to the closest shop and the purchasing of several baby gates. Once they were assembled and the floors checked for possible splinter related injuries, they were able to breathe and wait for the crawling to begin. At this moment though, Maeve was contained to her highchair being fed a variety of soft finger foods which were laid out on her tray. There were soft carrots, broccoli and peach chunks. Maeve reached for and crushed the pieces in her hands as she brought them to her lips with slow uncoordinated movements.

Sherlock kept a weathered eye on her as he listened to Mrs Hudson move around in the flat below. The older woman was baking again, this time she was trying her hand at some biscuits with vanilla and cinnamon. There was no doubt that she’d bring up a plate later for them. It was the knock on the door that Sherlock had been waiting for, Lestrade was long overdue. He’d texted earlier with the promise of an interesting case. A moment later the door opened downstairs and the sound of muffled voices was audible, useless greetings exchanged and then Mrs Hudson was telling him to go upstairs because Sherlock was expecting him and promising to follow in a few moments with tea and biscuits.

“Uncle Greg is here,” he told Maeve with raised eyebrows.

Maeve looked up from her food, her eyes locked onto his as her hands scrambled for purchase on the soft vegetables. Sherlock sighed, her hands were covered with mushed up vegetables as was her mouth and cheeks. He was only glad that the bib she was wearing covered her front and arms or she’d need to change outfits again. His nose wrinkled just thinking about the excrement-covered clothes that were soaking in the sink, one of the more glamorous of his dad duties. He was pulled from his thoughts with the arrival of Lestrade on the landing, Sherlock rose to his feet and faced the open door.

Lestrade nodded and puffed, “Sherlock.”

“Lestrade.” He nodded in return.

Lestrade’s eyes landed on the messy baby. “Maeve.”

“Come, sit, we’re just finishing lunch.” Sherlock sat back down and pulled his chair forward.

Maeve was momentarily distracted with the arrival of their guest but continued with her lunch by shoving a chunk of broccoli in her mouth, some of which got caught on the corner of her mouth painting her face with green. Her face morphed into one of disgust and she pushed the offending vegetable out of her mouth with her small tongue as she looked up at her father, betrayed that he would even offer her it.

“It’s always the broccoli,” Sherlock said more to himself than anybody else. He formed a hook with his finger and scooped the remaining vegetable out of her open mouth before handing her a piece of cooked carrot to pacify her. He used a wipe from the pack on the table to clean his finger and looked up at Lestrade, he was watching them with an amused smile that looked lopsided on his tired face.

“Messy work,” Lestrade cleared his throat.

Sherlock nodded. “She’ll be done soon.”

“There’s no rush.”

“You promised me an interesting case, I’d hate to be disappointed. I’ve already had to bathe Maeve after a faeces explosion that covered half of her body and a brand new outfit.”

“It should be interesting enough,” Greg assured him. “So, how are things with her? Well, except for the explosion of poo.”

“Fine. Her first tooth has finally cut through and she’s on finger foods, so she’s on track.”

“And is she moving?”

“She’s beginning to shuffle when on her tummy.”

“That’s good.”

Sherlock watched Maeve look around the remaining chunks of vegetables and pick up a piece of peach between her sticky fingers. He pursed his lips and glanced at Lestrade. “You haven’t spoken to him yet.”

“No, we’re going for coffee later to talk.” Sherlock nodded. “I know you think we’re stupid.”

“No, well, yes. You’re both being idiotic but you’re adults and you’ll work this _blip_ out.”

“Yeah.” Greg scratched the stubble on his chin and looked down.

“I should clean up,” the consulting detective changed the subject.

“You’re voluntarily cleaning?” Greg jested, looking up with mirth in his eyes.

“One of my many responsibilities as a father,” Sherlock said begrudgingly but the slight pull of his lips betrayed his cold image.

Greg returned the smile.

 

* * *

 

 

Mrs Hudson quickly disappeared after setting down the tea tray on the desk, now fearing that the coffee table was too low and easily accessible by an increasingly ready to move Maeve. She muttered something about needing to do some shopping and wanting to let Sherlock get on with his work while Greg pulled out his notepad. No case file, Sherlock noted as he sipped his tea. It burnt his tongue in touch but he revelled in the feeling, he’d always enjoyed his tea and coffee hot, almost too hot.

“Amanda Cole,” Lestrade read from the sheet of paper. “She came in about a suspected poisoning.”

Sherlock’s brows furrowed ever so slightly and he sat up a little straighter. Maeve jerked her head to look at him but seemed satisfied that there was nothing of importance happening and went back to playing with the soft butterfly. The wings crinkled in her fingers and she gurgled enthusiastically at her own ministrations. Her eyes flicked to Lestrade as he continued.

“She came in instead of calling, worried that she’d been poisoned. She was showing signs of a panic attack, almost fainted so we had her checked over by some paramedics but there were no signs of foul play. The paramedics said that she was exhausted, slightly dehydrated and her heart rate was elevated but all are normal in the case of a panic attack. We checked her house to reassure her but there was no sign of, well, anything, so we didn’t bother getting forensics in. We took her to a relative’s house. She called two days ago, still worried but there’s nothing we can do without cause. She’s been insistent.”

“So, you’ve sent her to me.” Sherlock crinkled the butterfly toys wings with his hand. Maeve squealed with excitement and pulled the toy close to her chest and she fidgeted in excitement.

“Well, she does seem a bit paranoid but I thought it was better to be safe. She thinks it’s her ex-boyfriend trying to poison her but I’ve run a check and he seems to be clean.”

“Poison is a woman’s weapon of choice,” Sherlock sniffed, “so they say.”

Lestrade nodded. “There’s something _iffy.”_

Sherlock rose an eyebrow.

“Detective’s instinct, I guess.”

Sherlock ran his hand down Maeve’s back.

  

* * *

 

 

The room was silent when Greg finished introducing Amanda Cole to the consulting detective. She sat in the client chair, her eyes flicking from Greg to the pale man with a baby on his lap. Her hand fiddled with the opposite sleeve and eventually, her eyes dropped to the floor.

“I’m sorry to disturb you.” She said, her eyes flicking to the very active baby.

Maeve seemed undisturbed by their visitor as she played with the toys on her father’s lap.

“You are not disturbing me,” Sherlock assured her.

Greg took a breath. It was refreshing to see Sherlock employ some manners, even if it were when it suited him the most. “He’s something of a working dad now.”

“Yes, it’s terribly difficult to find childcare in my line of work.” Sherlock managed a smile at that. It was both real and fake, for the reassurance of his new client but true, he could hardly expect a babysitter to keep up with his hours, he barely could.

“And it’s okay to…talk in front of her?” Amanda pulled her sleeve over her hand.

“She’s able to process your words but she doesn’t yet understand them. This is a confidential meeting.”

She nodded to herself. “You probably think I’m crazy.”

“I know you’re scared.”

“The police didn’t take me seriously, I understand why but I know I’m not crazy, somebody is trying to hurt me.” She sniffed.

“Poison you.” Sherlock urged.

“Yes,” she nodded and continued to look down.

“Tell me in your own words what is happening to you.”

“And you’ll help me?” There was a glimmer of hope beneath the tears and fear in her eyes.

“I’ll solve this mystery for you.” He picked his words artfully as he shifted Maeve slightly so that he could cross his legs and then place her back on his lap. She looked up at him as if to say ‘what are you doing Daddy?’ and he gave her his hand in apology.

“It all started a few weeks ago,” Amanda started with her narrative.

  

* * *

 

 

“Are you sure this is a good idea?” Lestrade asked as he cupped both of his hands around the tea that Sherlock had insisted he has in place of coffee. It was hot and sugary and that was all that mattered.

Sherlock gave a single curt nod and pulled his coat tighter around his body and the wriggling infant that was secured to his front via a papoose beneath the heavy material of his coat. He was sans scarf but his gloves were on and Maeve was wrapped up in a simple white fluffy bear-like onesie complete with hood, mittens and shoes. She looked out at Lestrade but craned her neck to look up at her father as much as she could.

“We shouldn’t be doing this with a kid,” Lestrade argued.

“We’re following leads not chasing a criminal.”

The winter wind nipped at their exposed skin; their cheeks shined red.

“I just, we shouldn’t be putting her in harm’s way.”

“She’s not in harm’s way. There’s nobody after our client.” Sherlock’s voice was calm.

“What?” Lestrade’s eyes widened and he had to take an actual step back which almost had him colliding with a passing student rushing to the library.

“You heard me.” Sherlock resisted the urge to roll his eyes.

“She’s not being poisoned then.”

“No, you told me as much.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Our client is playing a game with us.”

“Why?”

“Because who’d blame the victim?”

It was as though a lightbulb went off in the detective inspectors head. He said slowly, “no.”

“It shifts the blame, her coming to us, pretending to be scared. Even poisoning herself.”

“There is poison?”

“Keep up,” Sherlock sniffed.

“Sherlock, can you just pretend for a moment that not everybody is as smart as you and clue me in, for once? You know, instead of doing” he gestured wildly at the consulting detective, “this.”

Sherlock frowned. “Isn’t it obvious? Amanda is poisoning herself so that she has an alibi. She’s going to try and kill her sister with poison, something that doesn’t kill straight away but when correctly dosed, will kill.”

“How are we going to prove it?”

“I’ve sent word to your colleagues they’re collecting the evidence we need and then they’re picking up Amanda. She’ll deny the whole thing.”

“Why does she want to kill her sister?”

“She thought that she was sleeping with her ex-boyfriend.”

Greg took a breath. “Well, people are crazy.”

“You should write that on your Christmas cards,” Sherlock suggested.

“Oh, making jokes now, are we?” Greg couldn’t hold back a smile. It quickly dropped into a frown. “Wait, why are we here then?”

“I thought a walk would be nice, some fresh air and time for a _chat.”_ He spat the last word.

“We – what, chat? You don’t chat.”

“Not with me.” Sherlock turned in time for the blacked out car to pull up at the curb behind him.

“You set me up.”

“I’m fixing your relationship, you could say thank you.”

“I could strangle you,” Lestrade suggested.

“Then you’d never be able to rekindle your romance with my brother.”

“He’d give me a medal.”

“Probably.” Sherlock agreed. “Get in the car.”

“I hate you.” Greg stepped around him towards the car.

“John says that too,” Sherlock said, “though he always means I love you.”


	59. Two Hundred and Four Days Old

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In this chapter, we see Sherlock the working dad in action as he watches a suspect with Maeve and overly protective Mycroft coming to collect her. There are meetings and fluff

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I challenged myself to do five chapters this month in celebration of Christmas. I've already done two and a half chapters so here's the first, they'll be published on the 5th, 10th, 15th, 20th and 25th of the month. I hope you're excited as I am. 
> 
> Also, is there anything you want to see in this fic, I'd love to see some of your ideas.

The street smelled like burnt coffee beans and mince pies. Sherlock almost regretted picking a spot beside the small but colourful coffee shop. He was torn between wanting a mince pie and wanting to storm into the shop and tell them how ridiculous it was serving mince pies so far away from Christmas. There was still months until that dreaded time descended upon London forcing more people into the streets and an infinite amount of Christmas decorations. He frowned to himself, surely Christmas was still some time away. It wasn’t something that he took much notice of but now, with his daughter in his life and John, there was no doubt that it would become some big event and take up more room in his mind palace than strictly necessary. His mother would request his presence at some over the top dinner and there would be an innumerable amount of gifts. There could only be a little over a month until the dreaded day, it had crept up faster than he cared to admit. Maeve was six months old.

The notion of time moving faster now was ridiculous but it stuck in his head like a clock hitting midnight repeatedly, his daughter was growing up and there was nothing he could do to stop it. He put the thought aside, it was something he could deal with it when he wasn’t preoccupied.

He exhaled and watched his breath whisk through the air like that of a dragon after breathing fire. It mingled with Maeve’s breath and evaporated into the grey air. His hand was on her stomach, keeping her tight against his chest in the papoose beneath his coat. It was cold out and his coat, though a perfect protective barrier, was open and failing in its duty. It was the pivotal moment of parenthood, choosing to keep his daughter close and warm and not himself. If that didn’t make him a good father nothing would, though he doubted that Mycroft would agree or John or Lestrade. Apparently, going on a stakeout with a baby was an ‘irresponsible act’ and shouldn’t be encouraged but with a lack of childcare or want for leaving with her somebody else left the consulting detective with little choice.

“Daddy didn’t forget about Christmas,” he craned his neck and whispered so only she could hear.

Maeve was asleep, her head lolled to the side.

“I promise.” He ran a glove-clad hand over her hood covered head.

There was something to be said about the presence of Maeve on a stakeout. Sherlock found himself both at ease and alert, perhaps more alert than he usually was. She was the brightest conductor of light.

The suspect was still in the small diner nursing a cup of coffee that had long gone cold. He was dressed down but the angle of his back suggested that he was not only used to dressing better but also did not frequent diners such as this. His shoulders were slumped and the black hat he wore served to give him a discreet look or so he thought.  It only served to make him more obvious. But he was small fish and Sherlock was looking for a shark. A hired killer that used an encrypted to a website to offer out his services. He was hardly a professional but it would suit better to get a murderer off the streets before the holidays.

The signature black car pulled up to the curb in front of him. The door swung open and Mycroft looked out at him with a neutral expression. His eyebrow arched delicately.

“Lestrade called you,” Sherlock deduced and stepped closer to the car.

“He mentioned that you were out _investigating_.” A Mycroft's smile was too smug for Sherlock's liking.

“I am.” He snapped.

“Fine,” Mycroft said after a second. “But it would be irresponsible of me to leave Maeve with you.”

“We can’t have you being irresponsible,” Sherlock rolled his eyes.

“Quite.”

“What makes you think that I’ll just give her to you?”

“The temperature has dropped and the man you’re watching is about to leave, you’ll be quicker on foot without an infant strapped to your front.”

Sherlock glared at him but his expression quickly softened. He placed a hand on Maeve’s stomach to keep her upright as he unhooked the papoose beneath his coat and pulled the infant and papoose away from his body. He passed them both to Mycroft whose expression flickered momentarily to panic. He juggled the sleeping baby and papoose in the back seat of the car.

“Support her head.” Sherlock reminded him.

“I know.” Mycroft snapped.

“Why are you doing it, then?”

Mycroft shot a look at his brother and wiggled Maeve out the remainder of the harness before settling her to rest against his chest, her head lolling against him as her lips parted and she exhaled.

“I’ll return her-” Mycroft started.

Sherlock interjected, “she’s not a library book Mycroft.”

Mycroft rolled his eyes, “I suggest you get moving.”

Sherlock’s expression was thunderous as he looked up and noticed that his suspect was walking away from the diner. He cleared his throat and glanced at his sleeping daughter one last time before ducking away from the car and immersing himself in the crowds. Mycroft closed the door with his free hand.

“Back to the office, sir.” The driver said timidly, glancing at him in the mirror.

Mycroft nodded.

  

* * *

 

 

His office wasn’t designed with a child in mind. It was small in size and dark with stone walls and a large portrait behind the desk, it was bare and modern, unlike his various other offices which were warm and usually full of wood. Maeve remained asleep in her car seat, placed on the chair across from him. He flicked through the papers that Anthea had finished touching upon his detour. Everything was in order for the meeting.

He sighed and leaned back in his chair. His eyes fixed on the sleeping infant.

Her cheeks were still red, now with warmth and not cold. Her breathing was even and her hands were curled into fists on her stomach. Black hair peeked out from beneath her hood with the smallest of curls threatening to appear at the ends. It was uncanny, the similarities between her and Sherlock. Now that her eyes had settled, there was no mistaking that she was his daughter.

There was a soft tap on the door. Anthea.

“Come in, my dear.”

The door opened slowly and his PA smiled at him. “They’re ready for you, Sir.”

Mycroft nodded and pushed his chair back as he stood up. He took a moment to straighten his jacket and walked to the other side of the desk. He stopped in front of the chair, unstrapped his niece and delicately pulled her limbs out of the confines of the seat and her warm winter onesie. He scooped her up and placed her high up on his chest so that her head was tucked beneath his neck and the sweaty mess of sparse hair on her head tickled at his nose. Anthea passed him the soft thin blanket and he placed it between her and his arms so that she was sufficiently warm.

Anthea smiled and nodded, she waited for him to step out of the room and followed, closing the door and locking the office behind them. He walked with his usual air of superiority despite the odd looks he received for carrying an infant through the hallways. The doors to their usual meeting room were open and he walked inside, pausing long enough for his eyes to flick over the occupants of the room and take in their surprised expressions. A smile threatened to break on his lips but he remained indifferent.

“We’re recruiting young now,” one of the male members quipped. It resulted in some chuckles.

Mycroft offered a tight smile. “Don’t worry gentlemen, she won’t be taking your jobs today.”

He crossed to the chair that was rightfully his and sat down, his posture straight as his niece snored against his neck, her breath warm and moist.

Lady Smallwood paused in the threshold of the room. “Mycroft, this must be your niece.”

Mycroft nodded. “My brother has taken it upon himself to chase down the criminal classes.”

“Well, it’s a refreshing change.” She said as she took her seat at the opposite end of the table.

“Shall we begin?” Another asked.

“Please,” Mycroft muttered.

“Are you sure you want her present for this?”

“She’s six months old, she’s not going to sell out the countries secrets just yet.”

“Unless she’s anything like her father.” Roger piqued up.

“Yes,” Mycroft raised a single eyebrow, “we can hope.”

 

* * *

 

 

Mycroft was glad that he’s decided to place a towel on his lap before feeding the infant; Maeve’s hands were sticky and pieces of fruit were going everywhere including smeared on his glass desk. It was a small mercy that she had gotten any down her clothes, only on all visible skin and her bib.

“Babies are so messy,” Anthea spoke up after a few long minutes of silence. She was sat on the opposite side of the desk with her arms on it, lent forwards with her eyes fixed firmly on the baby.

“Yes, occupational hazard.” He replied with mirth in his tone.

“Can she move around yet?”

“No, but she’s close to crawling.”

Anthea seemed pleased with the answer. “Do we have to give her back? We could keep her.”

“You’d regret the decision immediately upon seeing one of her nappies.” He wrinkled his nose.

Anthea’s nose wrinkled too. “You’re no fun.”

“Neither is she.” Mycroft reminded her.

“I guess but she is interesting.”

“Incredibly.” He agreed with a smile as he pointed out a piece of peach to his niece.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Mycroft stepped into the warm flat. John was sat at his desk wearing a grey cardigan over his blue shirt, he looked up and smiled with a mouth full of homemade biscuits.

“John,” the older man greeted with a small smile. He stepped further into the room and place his niece on the matt in the centre on her belly, she immediately looked up and began to access her surroundings. He quickly turned on his heels and shut the baby gate fixed in the doorway. There were now gates in both of the doors leading into the flat and upstairs effectively putting the flat on lockdown for the soon to be moving infant.

“Tea?” John asked starting to stand.

Mycroft lifted a hand in his direction. “Sit down. I’ll make it.”

John paused, “are you sure?”

Mycroft gave a curt nod and moved towards the kitchen. He kept a weathered eye on the small almost mobile infant near his feet as her eyes followed him around the room. There were two clean mugs on the draining board which he picked up and placed beside the kettle that he clicked on.

“I know you’re not really one for small talk but did you have a good day?” John called from the living room.

Mycroft smiled to himself comfortable in the knowledge that John knew him so well and that he also couldn’t see him at this exact moment. He placed a teabag in each cup. “We attended a meeting.”

It was a vague answer but more than John had been expecting. “I’m sure you got plenty of work done with her in tow.”

“She was as good as gold, as the saying goes,” Mycroft assured him as he stepped back into the room with two cups of tea in his hands. He stepped around the chairs and baby toys and placed both mugs on the desk out of the way of the curious infant.

“Thanks.”

“Are you expecting my brother back anytime soon?” He sat in the low red armchair, his attention immediately flicking to his niece as she stared up at him.

“He was running around after somebody when we last spoke, he didn’t mention a time but he was pretty sure that he had the whole thing wrapped up. You know what he’s like when he has a lead, he’s like a bloodhound.”

Mycroft smirked at that. “It’s not the first time I’ve heard that comparison.”

“I bet,” John smiled in return.

Jade jumped over the stairgate with a meow of disdain. Her green eyes flicked to the new occupant in the room and she strode towards him with purpose rubbing her body against the side of the chair and Mycroft’s suit covered legs. He sighed but decided against annoying the temperamental cat. She jumped onto his lap. Mycroft moved his hands out of her way and she meowed in his face.

“You can move her. She probably won’t bite you.”

“Probably?” Mycroft repeated.

“Probably,” John said again with a tight smile.

“That’s reassuring.”

“Blame your father.”

“I do.”

John smiled at him.

The sound of the door slamming downstairs effectively caught all their attention and moments later, there was Sherlock rushing up the stairs taking them two at a time. He hopped over the stair gate and in one fluid movement crouched beside his daughter. She shuffled towards him a few millimetres.

“My hands are cold,” he told her as though she should know better.

Maeve gurgled.

“Good day, love?” John asked picking up his tea.

Sherlock hummed. “It was a five at most.”

“You seem in good spirits though,” John frowned.

“Why wouldn’t I be?” His brow furrowed.

John shrugged.

Sherlock pulled off his clothes and shoved them deep into one of his coat pockets. He glanced at Mycroft and cleared his throat, “you and Lestrade.”

Mycroft’s eyes flicked to John and then back to his brother. “There’s nothing to talk about.”

“You’re back together,” John said instantly regretting it.

“We were never not together. It was a _blip_ ,” he repeated the word his brother had used.

“A break,” Sherlock supplied.

“As much as I love talking about this,” Mycroft’s voice dripped with sarcasm, “there are more productive things I can be doing with my time and you with yours.”

“I’m going to have a bath.” Sherlock stood up.

“Take your time, I’ll put her down for a nap in a minute.”

Sherlock nodded once to John and then again to his brother, something of a silent understanding and went through the kitchen to the bathroom, once again hopping over the stairgate there. The door swung open and the tap was running within moments.

Maeve squealed.

“Hey, you.” John scolded gently.

Maeve babbled a little louder than usual.

“I’m having a bath.” Sherlock’s voice echoed.

Maeve squealed again.

“I’m not here to bow to your every whim.”

Mycroft snorted and John called back, “yes you are.”

The response was less than eloquent. “Shut up.”

“You love it.” John chuckled and exchanged an amused look with Mycroft.

 

* * *

 

 

“Bilbo went to sleep with that in his ears, and it gave him very uncomfortable dreams. It was long after the break of day when he woke up.” John closed the book and glanced at the infant asleep beside him in the bed. A smile broke on his face and he placed the book on the bedside table.

“The Hobbit,” Sherlock sighed dramatically.

“I read it as a kid with my dad.” He defended.

“As did I.”

“It’s a perfect bedtime story.”

“Sentimental,” Sherlock muttered.

John’s eyebrow rose high, so high it almost touched the wrinkles that appeared on his forehead. “Don’t belittle me for being sentimental when you tried to sneak that gift into the flat earlier.”

Sherlock closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. “You saw that?”

John nodded.

“What do you think of it?” He seemed nervous.

“I think it’s perfect.”

“I,” he cut himself off, “I saw it and couldn’t resist.”

“Well, I’m sure she’d love it if she could understand what it is.” John quipped.

Sherlock glared at him half-heartedly.

“Can I see?” John asked.

Sherlock nodded and crouched down with the elegance of a cat to pull out the small thin box from underneath the bed. He passed it to John and then moved to the edge of the room. John took the lid off of the box and peeked inside. There was a small coat not dissimilar to the one that the detective wore. The fabric was lined with a softer fabric and the buttons were smaller but the details were the same down to the red buttonhole. It was perfect.

“Where did you find it?”

“My tailor.”

“And he customised it for you.”

“Tbuttonholeole and he altered the shape to fit her body.”

“You’re getting sentimental Sherlock Holmes.”

“Inevitable really,” he shook his head.

“I love you.”

“I’m going to take her to bed,” Sherlock picked up his daughter, careful not to wake her. He stopped in the doorway and told John, “I love you.”

 


	60. Two Hundred and Twenty Seven Days Old

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Maeve is spending some time with her Uncle Mycroft and the Christmas spirit it in the air...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys, I’m actually fulfilling my promise for once and am updating regularly in this merry month of December. So, there are going to be questions at the end of this chapter so I want y’all to know that Mycroft and Greg have reconciled between the chapters but I’m not including it within this narrative. I will cover this thoroughly in my neighbouring fic Ideal Uncle in the foreseeable future and will notify you when it's up. 
> 
> I also want to say that while sticking to my promise of regular updates I am starting a new job tomorrow, so wish me luck.

“You’re disgustingly happy,” Sherlock grumbled as he strode into Mycroft’s office.

Mycroft arched an eyebrow. “It’s lovely to see you too, brother mine.”

Sherlock parked the pram next to the floor length mirror and placed his hands on his hips. He sniffed, “I almost regret pushing the two of you back together.”

Mycroft clicked the top of his pen back in place and put it on the desk in line with another that was perfectly positioned to the side of his laptop and a notebook. He cupped his hands together on the cool glass desktop. He looked down at his own tie which was slightly off centre but he resisted correcting it in front of his brother, though the younger Holmes had already seen the thought flash through his mind.

“You better not be working late,” Sherlock said with a look much like a mother hen. It was amusing how the tables had turned since Maeve had come into their lives.

“Twenty-three minutes and I’m free to return home,” Mycroft assured him.

Sherlock nodded. “Treat her like-”

“The princess she is.” Mycroft finished for him with a thin smile.

The consulting detective nodded again and looked at the pram. He lent down and placed a kiss on his daughter’s head. His voice lowered to a whisper, “I love you. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Mycroft said nothing. He was not used to seeing such displays of sentiment from his brother. He was a father now and that came with unfamiliar affections. It may have shocked Mycroft but it did not surprise him.

“Tomorrow,” Sherlock said to his brother with a small nod. An unspoken question.

Mycroft nodded his head in a silent reply. He would take care of her, his brother knew this, and he was just panicking last minute like any parent, more so with their history.

Sherlock swept out the room without looking back at Maeve.

The door shut softly and the only sounds in the room were breathing. Maeve was freshly awake and soon would want to be out of the pram and holding his full attention. He knew there were about three minutes before she was fully alert so he read through the papers in front of him quickly and satisfied, he placed them in a non-emergency pile to be looked at later. He closed the laptop on his desk and pressed the small button on the phone to summon his PA.

Anthea knocked and entered without waiting. She poked her head through the doorway. “Sir.”

“I do not wish to be disturbed over the weekend.” He left the ‘unless of a major incident’ silent.

Anthea nodded in understanding. “Anything else, Sir?”

“We’re going to take a scenic route home.”

“I’ll inform the driver,” she said with a smile as she edged closer to the pram. Inside Maeve blinked up at her sleepily and yawned, it took over her entire body and she stretched out her limbs beneath the blanket.

“You can hold her,” Mycroft told her with a tone of nonchalance. He picked up the pile of files he’d place down earlier and put them in his briefcase. Anthea made no move. He sighed inwardly. “She likes physical contact after waking up or else she feels alone and makes a fuss.”

“You mean she starts screaming?” Anthea jested.

Mycroft levelled her with a serious look. “That’s exactly what I mean.”

Anthea took another step closer to the pram and hesitantly reached in. She pulled out the small infant and pulled her close. Maeve’s head lolled and Anthea made sure that she didn’t drop it but instead placed a tired head on her shoulder until she was awake enough to support it herself.

“She’s so much like Sherlock,” There was awe in her voice.

“Yes,” Mycroft lent against the desk and crossed his arms over his chest.

“I just,” she paused. “I can’t get over the similarities. I know children usually look like their parents but she’s just, a miniature version of him. It’s amazing.”

“There is little of her mother in her.”

“You know her mother.”

Mycroft looked at the ground, “I know of her.”

Anthea nodded and dropped the subject. “What are you going to do this weekend?”

“Gregory has been decorating the house with his kids today.”

“That’s nice. I’m sure they loved that, there’s plenty to decorate.”

“Quite,” Mycroft raised his eyebrows.

Anthea smiled down at the sleepy infant.

  

* * *

 

 

The scenic route was a trip through the more popular areas in London, staring at the Christmas decorations through the blacked out windows. He made sure to point them out to Maeve and talk to her as they went until she yawned and he informed the driver to return home. She was still tired but mostly bored. He’d need to keep her up if he wanted her to sleep through the night.

They pulled up outside the manor a short time later. He stepped out the car with the car seat in one hand and his briefcase in the other. A security officer took the bag from the boot and opened the front door for him. He placed the bag inside the threshold and then shut the door behind him. Mycroft placed the car seat on the closest table and unstrapped his niece. When she was in his arms he stepped further into his house.

“Myc.” A voice called.

Greg sounded flustered.

Mycroft frowned and walked towards the main living room.

Greg poked his head around the doorway as the government official approached. His smile dropped.

Mycroft frowned.

“Sorry. I didn’t know you’d have her.” He admitted sheepishly.

“I informed you-” Mycroft began.

“Yeah, you did,” he scrubbed his hands over his face. “The other night, I forgot.”

He narrowed his eyes. The older man was hiding something.

“Shit,” Greg said again, panicking now. “Shit, I didn’t mean to say that. Twice.”

Mycroft shuffled on the spot, an action he was not accustomed to, and felt his body heat up beneath the layers of his suit. He said in a quiet voice, “Bad language choice aside, her presence here isn’t a problem, is it Gregory?”

“No, of course, it’s not.” The older man assured him.

“You’ve taken the kids home.” It was an observation, not a question.

“They’re spending the night with their grandparents.”

Mycroft nodded and stepped past his partner into the living room. It was as though Christmas had exploded in the room and that was putting it mildly. There was a tree near the window with bright decorations and lights dressing it. The fireplace was surrounded by two tall nutcracker figurines which were from the deepest recesses of his attic, along with the smaller ones lining the mantle.

“Do you like it?” Greg asked sheepishly from behind him.

Mycroft swallowed. “It’s a lot.”

“Too much?”

“Probably.”

“I can take some down.”

“No,” Mycroft said quickly. He spun around to face the grey haired man. “It’s warm.”

“You like it then?”

Mycroft nodded. “It’s different. Unusual but not bad.”

“Ever the eloquent speaker.” Greg jested.

Mycroft glared at him. “It’s not how I usually celebrate Christmas.”

“You don’t celebrate Christmas.”

“I do with you, apparently.”

“Do you want to put the star on your tree?”

“No, I want you to,” Mycroft admitted.

Greg smiled at him. “I ordered take out.”

Mycroft scowled at him.

“From one of your favourite restaurants, I know you.”

Maeve took that moment to squeal in delight.

“Someone is excited to be here,” Greg said with a pointed look at the infant.

“What do you expect Gregory? She’s with her favourite uncle.” He said as he strode from the room.

Greg called after him, “you’re her only uncle.”

There was no response but he knew that Mycroft was rolling his eyes at him.

 

* * *

 

 

Maeve was too preoccupied with the decorations in the dining room to even consider eating. Mycroft sighed an offered her a cooked carrot from his own plate. She took it but did not put it in her mouth.

“Maeve.” He said with an authoritative tone. Maeve levelled him with a look not dissimilar to that Sherlock would if offered food when on a case. He raised one eyebrow at her. “Eat it.”

As if she were actually listening to him she stuffed the carrot into her mouth and began chewing.

“Good girl,” he said, the side of his lip tugging up slightly.

Greg was watching his plate as though it were the most interesting thing in the world. He’d barely touched the chicken and vegetables, his foot tapped against the hardwood floor.

“Gregory, what is wrong with you?” Mycroft asked, setting down his knife and fork.

“Nothing.” Greg cleared his throat.

Mycroft’s eyes narrowed.

Greg set down his own cutlery. “I want to ask you something.”

“Yes.”

“I know we’ve had our issues but I’m glad we sorted it out.”

“That’s not a question.”

“No, I just wanted the whole thing, night to be perfect.”

“Every moment with you is perfect.” Mycroft blurted out.

Greg’s cheeks reddened and he smiled, that perfect smile that Mycroft adored so much. “That was extremely romantic Mr Holmes.”

Mycroft nodded and absentmindedly handed his niece another carrot. “Do not tell anybody that I said that.”

“I won’t ruin your image but I do have a question to ask you.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small black jewellery box which could only hold one thing. Mycroft stared at the box as though it were a terrorist. Greg cleared his throat, “I would have got down on one knee but I didn’t want to startle you.”

Mycroft remained silent, his attention fixed on the box.

“Mycroft.” Greg said softly.

The silence was deafening.

“Mycroft.” He repeated a little louder.

“Yes.” Mycroft seemed to snap out of it. He pointed to the box. “Can I?”

Greg nodded and Mycroft gingerly opened the box. The ring inside was a simple gold band with a sliver of white gold through the centre, almost invisible in how it blended in with the gold. He looked up at Greg.

“Do you like it?” Greg’s expression was somewhere between excitement and terror.

Mycroft nodded.

The genius was speechless.

“I-” He managed looking back down at the ring.

“I know this is a bit of a shock but are you going to answer?”

Mycroft swallowed past the lump in his throat. Maeve took the silence as an opportunity to start babbling away, seeking more food. Greg chuckled and lent over the table to hand her another carrot. She took it from him and started chewing away.

“Yes.” Mycroft said after a moment. His voice hoarse.

“Yes?” Greg repeated.

“Yes.” His voice was firmer now. Sure.

The smile on Greg’s face was immeasurable. Pure joy shot through Mycroft’s body at the sight and events of the night. He stood up and was pulled into a tight embrace a moment later.

“I love you.” Greg said, turning to kiss the taller man.

“I love you.” Mycroft said. He’d deny it later but a tear rolled down his cheek.

Maeve squealed sensing the excitement in the room.

“Yes, we haven’t forgotten about you.” Greg laughed. “Come on, let’s have some dessert.”

 

* * *

 

 

The ring felt heavy on his finger. Yes, he was used to the solid gold band he usually wore on that finger on his right hand but now, the shiny new ring seemed alien. The gold ring had been something of a promise. It belonged to his grandfather and he had passed it down to his father on his eighteenth birthday and so on. An engagement ring sat on his left hand now. The thought alone was exhilarating.

Maeve babbled on his knee. Her eyes were torn between all the twinkling lights and sparkling Christmas decorations that littered the living room.

“You okay?” Greg asked. He was sat beside them on the sofa with his ankle on his knee, watching Mycroft with a curious smile. “You’ve been rather quiet.”

“Overwhelmed.”

“In a good way?”

Obviously.

Mycroft rolled his eyes.

“Okay.” Greg nodded and his face dropped. “I also got you some cufflinks, they’re in the bedroom in case you don’t want to wear the ring, you know, sentiment and all that.”

“You’ve been very thorough.”

“Well, I’m marrying a Holmes so I have to be.”

Mycroft smiled at that and placed a kiss on the top of his nieces head.

  

* * *

 

 

It was universally known that Maeve was happiest when she was with her dad or in the bath. She splashed in the bath with a vigour Mycroft hadn’t seen in quite some time. It reminded him of Sherlock at a young age except his brother would avoid washing at all costs till his hair became matted and they’d threaten to cut it all off. He hoped that Maeve did not inherit all of her father’s stubbornness.

“All clean?” He asked her.

Maeve squealed in response. There were bubbles all over her body even in her hair.

He couldn’t help but smile at her.

“Come on then, let’s get you to bed before you tire yourself out.” He talked to her as though she were an adult and not a six-month-old baby.

He picked up the slippery baby as she kicked her legs in the process and placed her on the towel. He quickly wrapped her in it and picked her up. Some water seeped through the material but he ignored it.

Greg was in the middle of the bed on his side reading through a case file. He looked up at them with a tired smile and apologised, “I’ll put this away.”

“You don’t have to apologise for work, Gregory,” Mycroft told him.

Their relationship was founded upon their dedication to their work.

“I know but tonight is about us, the three of us.”

Mycroft smirked as he placed his niece on the bed.

Greg immediately started pulling funny faces at her.

 

* * *

 

 

Mycroft was sat at the table with his first coffee of the morning when his brother strode in as though he owned the place. Security had not called so they were unaware that he was here.

“Do you have to break in?” Mycroft sighed.

Sherlock smiled gleefully in response and practically hopped over to his daughter. She jerked around to look at him and kicked her legs in excitement.

“I missed you too.” He plucked her from the seat and held her close.

Maeve placed her head on his chest and he kissed the top of her head.

Sherlock’s eyes flicked to his brother. “I believe a ‘thank you’ is in order.”

“I won’t accept it,” Mycroft muttered turning back to his paper.

Sherlock frowned and prompted, “For getting the two of you back together.”

Mycroft levelled him with a look.

Sherlock sighed, “I guess congratulations are in order.”

Mycroft gave a small nod. “She’s rather excitable this morning.”

“It’s the Christmas decorations.” The consulting detective said simply.

“Tis the season,” Mycroft said with a smile.

“You’re getting sentimental in your age.” Sherlock looked horrified.

“Then what, brother dear, are you?”

How extremely childish.

Sherlock ripped the paper out of his hand and threw it across the room.

Mycroft sighed, "you can leave now."

"Don't worry, I'm going." Sherlock left the room with his daughter in his hand and a smile on his face. 

 

* * *

 

 

“You bastard,” John said the moment he entered the flat.

Sherlock stopped in the doorway, eyes flicking over the shorter man.

“You knew that Lestrade was going to propose last night and you made Mycroft look after her.”

“It’s hardly a chore.” He rolled his eyes.

“It’s not fair and you know it.”

“Do not.” Sherlock said with all the petulance of a child. He placed a sleeping Maeve on the sofa.

“How would you feel if Mycroft had done that to you and you were proposing to me?” His hands were on his hips now. That was never a good sign.

“Do you want me to propose to you?”

“Don’t change the subject.”

Sherlock’s eyebrows went up and back down quicker than a blink.

“Don’t give me that look,” the blonde hissed. “You know it was unfair-”

Sherlock opened his mouth to protest.

John didn’t give him the chance to speak. “I know you knew so don’t even try to lie your way out of this one.”

“I wouldn’t be mad,” Sherlock mumbled.

“What?” John frowned.

“You asked how I would feel if Mycroft did that to me, I wouldn’t be mad. I’d be honoured to have Maeve with us at a proposal no matter if it were you or me on one knee. We are a family.”

There was a beat of silence.

John managed an “oh” and looked at his feet.

“Right,” the shorter man said after a moment. He cleared his throat.

“Mycroft wouldn’t have had it any other way,” Sherlock added.

“Sorry. I shouldn’t have-”

Sherlock cut him off this time, “no matter.”

“But I shouldn’t have snapped at you like that, you’re not a child.”

“No, but you’re my moral compass. It would have remiss of you not to bring it up.”

“I’m your moral compass.”

“Well,” Sherlock’s brow furrowed, “yes.”

“I killed someone for you twenty-four hours after we met.”

“I’m aware.”

“A bit not good,” John said with a small smile.

“Bit not good.” Sherlock agreed.

“I’ll put her to bed then.”

Sherlock reached out for his arm. “If you want to make it up to me, you can clean the next dirty nappy.”

“Nice try.”


	61. Two Hundred and Thirty Five Days Old

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Christmas shopping time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a bit of a shorter chapter but the rest will be longer, I promise. I was supposed to update this yesterday but I've been busy with starting work this week but the update will be as promised now.

John stopped beside the tall Christmas tree. It was large and decorated with large red and gold ball balls, the lights flickered despite the hour. It was light out and in true London fashion, the streets were heaving. Christmas was the busiest time of year in the capital. The masses of people were in a rush to do their Christmas shopping, it was quite last minute with only seven days left to the big day.

“You see the lights?” John asked the small alert child.

Maeve was bundled up in a tracksuit set with a small fluffy grey coat with ears. Her cheeks were red and her eyes glued to the decorations in front of her. She smiled.

“We need to find some presents for your grandparents and uncle.” He told her. “I know daddy said not to bother but we’re going to anyway, aren’t we?”

Maeve babbled.  

“Yes, so what shall we get your uncle Mycroft? I doubt it will be a surprise.” He said with a pointed look at the CCTV camera above him. He himself doubted that Mycroft would be watching him but according to Sherlock, it was entirely possible.

The only advantage of a pram was that most people, not all, would allow him to pass in usual circumstances. Now, with people in a Christmas frenzy, manners were lacking somewhat. It also allowed him to carry more shopping. He somehow passed through the crowd with ease and approached the shop he was looking for. It was a small but quaint shop tucked in between some buildings. A woman leaving the room opened the door for him and stood aside as he manoeuvred the pram into the room. It was an antique bookshop.

The older gentleman at the till looked up with a small smile.

It was obvious they didn’t get much visitors with prams.

“Good morning,” he croaked.

John nodded. “I reserved some books.”

“You must be Mr Murray.” He began rummaging around beneath the desk.

“That’s me,” John lied. It was better when dealing with a Holmes, to act like a Holmes.

He knew it was a little over the top but he was dealing with rather a dramatic family. Needs must.

The man produced a pile of books, four of them to be exact. They were leather bound and a little beat up looking but the perfect gift. They were tied in a pile with some brown string. John couldn’t help but smile at the sight of it. “Thank you.”

The old man smiled and nodded.

John paid him and placed the books in a bag he had waiting. He placed them beneath the pram in the under storage and left the shop with a thank you to the older man. Next, he stopped at a garden centre for some lunch. Maeve begrudgingly accepted a bottle for lunch instead of real food and he quickly ate his sandwich before picking up a few things and returning home.

Sherlock was playing the violin when John walked in with Maeve.

He stopped playing mid-note and twisted to face them. His eyes narrowed and flicked over the pair reading them for all the possible information that they’d collected throughout the day.

“Don’t,” John said in a soft but firm tone.

Sherlock raised his eyebrows and then seemed to drop the subject. He muttered with all the petulance of a child, “fine.”

“I know that you hate Christmas but this is her first Christmas and it should be-”

“Magical,” Sherlock finished.

“Yes.”

“Agreed.”

John nodded and then frowned. “Wait, what?”

“I agree. Her first Christmas should be magical.”

“Right.” John frowned.

“Can I take her?” He gestured the infant in his arms. “We have an appointment.”

“An appointment?” John frowned.

“Yes,” Sherlock cleared his throat. “With my father.”

 

* * *

 

 

The appointment wasn’t exactly an appointment. But it was time specific.

His father was stood outside when the cab stopped. His foot tapped impatiently against the concrete and he looked up at the sound of the cab breaking. He crossed the busy path and opened the door.

“What are we doing here?” His father asked.

Apparently, they were skipping the pleasantries.

“Christmas shopping,” Sherlock said.

“For who?” Sigers brow furrowed as he picked up the car seat containing his granddaughter.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and climbed out of the cab.

“Sherlock, this.” His father gestured with his free hand to the building.

It was a ceramics shop, more specifically the kind where you could paint your own pottery.

“Mother will be thrilled,” Sherlock said as though it were the most obvious thing in the world. “It’s the kind of sentimental drivel she loves.”

Siger’s frown softened. He was right.

Sherlock walked into the shop with such purpose that Siger struggled to keep up. He told the woman his name and moments later they were sat at their own table in the loud shop. In front of them were some plain white plates and mugs that they were going to paint, apparently.

“How are we going to do this?”

“Handprints in a light colour, I’m thinking blue.”

“Right.”

“You can take her shoes off.”

“I’m assuming you brought me here for a reason.” He sighed and went about his task of taking off the infants shoes. She shot him an annoyed look but softened moments later as her eyes wandered over the shop.

“Your penmanship is better than mine,” Sherlock pouted.

Siger’s eyebrows shot up. It wasn’t often his son admitted that he wasn’t the best at something.

“You want me to write on the plates.”

“Yes, something like ‘merry Christmas’ and the date.”

“Ok.”

  

* * *

 

 

In hindsight, this job was extremely messy and not at all worth the effort. With Maeve kicking her paint slick feet around, it was a dodging game to avoid being covered in the pale pink paint. Sherlock, ever a master at his role, managed to dodge the feet with extreme precision. His father sighed and hiked the baby further up and away from his clothes as Sherlock handed yet another complete plate to the woman beside him. She took the plate and hurried to take it back to the kiln.

“You couldn’t have picked an easier gift,” Siger muttered.

Sherlock glared at him. “You’d find fault in whatever I'd have chosen.”

“No, that’s not what I meant, it’s just.” He sighed, “She’s fidgety.”

“She’s six months old.” Sherlock reminded him.

“She’s just like you were, eager to move around. Never quite,” Sherlock stared at him, “satisfied when sitting around. I guess that’s part of the reason you’re so good at your job.”

Sherlock didn’t acknowledge the compliment. “She’s fine with me.”

“That’s because she adores you.”

“Well,” Sherlock shrugged and picked up the waiting cloth. “She has excellent taste.”

Siger snorted.

 

* * *

 

 

“Isn’t that enough?” Siger asked.

His patience was wearing thin.

Sherlock decided not to push it, this one.

“This is the most important gift,” Sherlock told him.

Siger frowned. There was something in his son’s tone.

Vulnerability, perhaps.

“So, what is this gift?” Siger cleared his throat and smiled at his granddaughter.

“You have to promise not to laugh.”

“Why?”

“Just promise.”

Siger was reminded of Sherlock as a child. “Fine.”

Sherlock leads him to the last place he expected.

“Here?” Siger asked, glancing at the vast amount of Christmas decorations.

“Here,” Sherlock repeated firmly.

They were stood at the entrance to Santa’s grotto.

“I intend to make this the first of many successful Christmases which in this case means doing the unexpected.”  Sherlock rambled in explanation.

“So, we’re here to get a picture with Santa?” The older man smirked.

Sherlock’s face was cold as stone. “Yes.”

“Really?”

“Yes, really. Now let’s get on with this. The longer we’re here the longer Mycroft will taunt me with it.”

Sherlock strode off in the direction of the grotto and Siger couldn’t help but smile, some things would never change.

  

* * *

 

 

John strolled into the bedroom exactly fifteen seconds after Sherlock had placed the presents beneath the loose floorboard beneath the bed. He somehow managed to stand up and jump over the bed so that he was on it beside his daughter. It was inconspicuous or it was supposed to be.

John’s eyebrows shot up in surprise.

Sherlock looked up at him with a neutral expression.

“What are you up to?” The ex-army doctor asked.

“I’m putting my daughter down for a nap, what are you doing?”

“I’m doing the washing.”

Sherlock frowned at him.

John sighed, “The washing doesn’t magically disappear. Somebody has to do it.”

“I know that John.” He turned to face his daughter. She was barely awake.

“You’re up to something.” John picked up the pile of clothes that had been accumulating.

“Prove it,” Sherlock said with all the petulance of a child.

“You’re a child,” John muttered as he walked out of the room.

“You are,” Sherlock shouted back. When he was sure John was out of earshot he turned to his daughter and whispered, “don’t tell Papa, it will be our little secret.”

The only response was Maeve’s soft snore.

Sherlock placed his head on the pillow and took her small hand in his palm.


	62. Two Hundred and Thirty Eight Days Old

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Christmas parties everywhere ...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, it's a day late but I had my last day at work yesterday followed by a Christmas meal so it completely slipped my mind but here it is, as promised. More Christmas content. 
> 
> I hope you enjoy it!!
> 
> And the next chapter is as promised, Christmas Eve and Christmas Day with our beautiful Holmes/Watson family.

There was a pattern emerging.

It went against Sherlock’s aloof nature but he was once again at the New Scotland Yard in the midst of a party which meant that the majority of the staff were drunk. Sherlock cradled his daughter close to his chest, you couldn’t catch inebriation but you could stupidity, and there was no way he was infecting his daughter with the stupidity of the metropolitan police force. She was focused on the collar of his coat, her fingers roaming over the material as he swayed slightly from side to side.

The music wasn’t too loud but the voices of the drunk were.

John was making his way around the people with a mulled wine he’d picked up thirty minutes ago in his hand. The hot drink was now cold and the smell drifted around the room.

“Alright,” Lestrade clapped his hands together.

Maeve jerked against his chest but was calmed when Sherlock’s palm ran down her back and he whispered softly into her ear, craning his neck. “Daddy is here.”

“Time for the secret Santa.”

“Hardly secret,” Sherlock muttered to Maeve.

She sniffed which he took as an affirmative.

There was some fumbling and John returned to his side just in time for the gifts to be handed out.

“Can we leave yet?” Sherlock asked.

John snorted.

He took that as a no and perched himself on the closest desk.

John threw his mulled wine into the closest bin and turned to face Sherlock. “I hate mulled wine.”

“You like alcohol.”

“It tastes like vinegar.”

“If it’s not done correctly,” Sherlock said.

“Where did they get this one from?”

“Tesco.”

John nodded. “Not the good stuff then?”

“It’s hardly a difficult brewing process.”

“Aww, did you used to make it?”

“No.” Sherlock looked at the ground. “My father did, every year.”

“That’s how you know so much about mulled wine.”

“I know everything.”

John winced, “almost everything.”

Sherlock expression morphed into the same one might have if they’d just been slapped.

John nodded as Greg approached, saving the moment.

He handed John a wrapped up bottle.

Whisky, obviously.

“Thank you.” The army doctor smiled and regarded the gift.

“Well, somebody thinks that you could do with a drink, don’t know why.” The grey-haired detective smirked and looked at Sherlock. He held out the other present.

“Another hat, how original,” Sherlock muttered as he shifted Maeve to sit on his hip.

“How did you- never mind.” John stopped himself.

“It’s a Santa hat, isn’t it?” Sherlock said with all the amusement one might muster after watching a two-hour French documentary.

“I didn’t buy it,” Lestrade assured him, “but yeah, it’s a Santa hat.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes and made no move to take the gift from him.

“I’ve also got some stuff for Little Miss Muffet.”

Sherlock ignored the nickname.

Sally approached with a bag full of gifts all wrapped in a white paper with small cartoon reindeers on them.

“Wow, that’s kind of you.” John cleared his throat.

Sally smiled and placed the bag on the desk between the consulting detective and ex-army doctor. “It’s just a little something from us here.”

“You know because she’s something of a….” Lestrade sniffed. “Mascot for us.”

“Mascot,” Sherlock repeated.

John snorted.

“Not a mascot but you know, she’s part of the team.” Lestrade fumbled for words.

“You think that my seven-month-old baby is part of your team?” Sherlock brow rose elegantly.

Lestrade's face dropped and his eyes flicked between Sally and John, searching for answers. 

“You flatter yourself Lestrade, Maeve is miles more advanced than you and your team.”

John chuckled at that.

“Right, yeah, genius and all that.” He recognised the joke.

“Well, the presents are from us all,” Sally said after a moment.

Sherlock cleared his throat and muttered, “thank you.”

Sally shot him a look as though he’d grown an eye in the middle of his forehead.

She nodded and ducked back into the party.

“Open them then,” Lestrade told him with a pointed look at the bag.

Sherlock nodded and did something neither John nor Lestrade expected. He folded his legs and sat down on the floor with all the elegance of a jungle cat. He placed Maeve on his lap, plucked a gift from the top of the bag and handed it to his daughter. She looked up at him confused but with a small nod of his head she was convinced and allowed her hands to roam over the present.

Sherlock opened it with delicate hands. She watched him and eventually, pulled the paper.

Inside was a soft duck toy.

Maeve reached for the toy and squeezed it between her small fingers.

Sherlock opened all the presents quickly and methodically as Maeve focused on the small duck. They were all age appropriate toys. “This is,” he cleared his throat, “very kind of you.”

Lestrade knew it was better to not dwell on it. “Yes, well, they all wanted to.”

Sherlock nodded.

“You can duck out now if you want,” the older man told him.

Sherlock looked up at him. “John made me promise to stay at least an hour.”

John nodded.

“Well, make sure you say goodbye before you leave.”

 

* * *

 

 

“Why do we have to go to this?” John asked.

“I asked Mycroft the same thing,” Sherlock admitted as he placed the two gold sparkly shoes on his daughter’s moving feet. She giggled as he wrestled with her.

“It all seems rather formal.”

Sherlock looked over his shoulder at the blonde.

John sighed, “Alright yes, that’s your brother through and through.”

“Stop moving your feet,” Sherlock told Maeve firmly. She stopped giggling but the grin on her face betrayed her. He sighed and put both of the shoes firmly on her feet. “You are the most infuriating _thing_ ever.”

“She’s not a thing.”

“I’m aware John,” Sherlock snapped.

“Don’t get fussy with me,” John mumbled as he fastened his tie.

“Maybe you should wrestle to get your daughter dressed.”

“But you’re having so much fun,” he flashed a grin.

“Poisoning is fun, this is … a chore at best.”

“You hate chores.”

“Some chores are worse than others.” Sherlock rose to his feet.

Maeve babbled from her seat on the floor.

“You can’t stay angry at her for a second,” John said with an annoying smile.

“But I can you,” Sherlock countered.

“I get it, she’s really cute and has those rosy cheeks.”

“And incredible genes.”

“Well,” John edged closer to the detective.

“It’s undeniable.”

“So, what’s the plan?” John asked. “How long are we going to be there? How many people are we going to talk to? When are we going to leave?”

“We’re playing it by ear tonight John.”

The ex-army doctor frowned. “By ear?”

“Yes,” Sherlock confirmed with a small smile.

“But you hate these events.”

“Almost as much as Mycroft.”

“So tonight is dictated by Mycroft?”

“What isn’t?” Sherlock asked with a sigh. He scooped up his daughter and stood up.

“He’s still in a good mood though after the…”

“The engagement.” The taller man finished, “He is elated. He will ensure that we’re not there for the duration.”

“Or you’ll get moody and annoy him?” John asked with a knowing look.

“Exactly John. You’re catching on.”

 

* * *

 

 

The problem was that Sherlock didn’t like people very much.

That was putting it mildly.

It meant that he was dodging people the entire time he drifting, seemingly without purpose, around the room. His daughter’s eyes flicked from one sparkling Christmas decoration to the other though she seemed to favour the large crystal chandelier above their heads.

“Sherlock, it’s so lovely to see you.” A woman called from beside him.

There was no way he could avoid social interaction now. He turned to face the owner.

Lady Smallwood.

“And you,” he returned. He could be polite and charming like Mycroft.

She edged closer to him and lowered her voice, “I’ve always found these events rather tedious but needs must when avoiding international catastrophe.”

Interesting.

He’d have to look into that later.

“Mycroft made me come.”

“Yes, I know.” That made her smile.

“There’s no reason for my presence here other to exhibit Mycroft’s extraordinary gifts of transformation, the once addict brother now a diligent father.”

Lady Smallwood’s eyebrow rose slightly and she lifted her champagne close to her lips. “I was under the impression he wanted to you here for company, not to prove a point but what would I know.”

Sherlock was careful not to show any sign of surprise.

“I must get back to conversations with the ambassadors. It was lovely to see you again.”

Sherlock said nothing. He watched her walk away and then looked around the room. John was with a group of soldiers and ex-soldiers exchanging war stories. He looked as though he were in his element. There was a glass of whisky in his hand, the brand Mycroft preferred. Sherlock couldn’t fault the choice. It was exquisite whisky though John had rather a fondness for the stuff.

“Brother Mine.” Mycroft’s voice pulled him from his musings.

Sherlock turned to face his brother.

The elder Holmes sibling looked immaculate in his suit. It was a simple but elegant piece that seemed black to the naked eye but once it was beneath the light shimmered a deep midnight blue. The collar, by contrast, was made of a black matte material and his bow tie was a dark patterned blue that matched the handkerchief in his pocket. It was an exquisite piece. Sherlock really couldn’t fault the execution of the outfit.

There was an untouched glass of champagne in Mycroft’s hand and the simple but beautiful ring on his finger shone against the glass.

“Can I leave yet?” Sherlock asked.

It struck Mycroft how little he’d grown up.

Mycroft sighed. “You are free to leave whenever you chose.”

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed. “I don’t have to be here.”

“Oh, you had to be here, for the department.”

“I do not work for Scotland Yard.” It came out as a growl.

“No, but it is universally known that you work with them.”

“I’m here by association.”

“No,” Mycroft smiled, “you’re here because of your association with them.”

“The man behind the figure.” Sherlock breathed.

“Something like that.”

“I hate you,” Sherlock muttered, shifting his daughter slightly. She hadn’t stopped wriggling since she’d seen him. It made him annoyed and a little jealous. He quashed the feelings bubbling up inside of him.

“Merry Christmas to you too,” He was still smiling.

Infuriating.

John appeared out of nowhere and stood to both of the Holmes brothers sides.

“Boys, are we behaving?” He asked, knowing the answer already.

Mycroft flashed him a smile. “Of course we are, aren’t we Sherlock?”

“We’re fine.” Sherlock agreed.

John leaned in and lowered his voice, “can you two get along for a night?”

“We’re saving it for the Christmas period.” Mycroft retorted.

Sherlock snorted.

John rolled his eyes. “Maeve, come to Papa, let’s leave these two to mingle.”

John handed his empty whisky glass to Sherlock and took the wriggling baby. She was over-excited and it didn’t take a genius to figure out that she’d soon be overtired and a nightmare to put to bed. He walked away from the genii and back towards the small group at the bar. The men cheered at his return and immediately there were questions about the small, beautiful baby in his arms.

 

* * *

 

 

“You look ridiculous,” Sherlock repeated.

“That’s the point of Christmas,” John called back from the kitchen.

“And I thought it was family, how wrong I’ve been.” Sarcasm dripped from his tone.

“Family? When was the last Christmas you spent with your family?” John deadpanned as he walked back into the room with two teas, not the coffee that Sherlock had demanded upon entering the flat.

“We don’t get along.”

“Didn’t.” John corrected. He placed both the mugs on the coffee table.

“Touché.”

“Right, so what do I need to know before Christmas eve?”

Sherlock regarded him for a moment. “You met my family at the christening. It will be most of them, but not all, they don’t all partake in the Christmas season like us.”

“Will your uncle Rudy be there?”

“He’ll pop in early on before his ex-wife and the kids turn up.”

“Right, anybody I should keep an eye out for?”

“They’ll be analysing our every move no doubt.”

“Like you analyse or…?”

“No, the usual way John.” He said with a small smile. “They’ll be children running around and an obscene amount of food, I’m sure you’ll enjoy yourself.”

“Right, and your parents do this every year?”

Sherlock nodded.

“Is that all?”

“You’ll see tomorrow John.”


	63. Two Hundred and Forty One Days Old

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> IT'S CHRISTMAS!!! Well, Christmas Eve and then it's Christmas.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I thought I would have this done by yesterday but I underestimated how busy I would be during the day, it was Christmas so I cut myself some slack. BUT here it is. A new chapter. The Christmas chapter. It's my gift to you all. 
> 
> MERRY CHRISTMAS.
> 
> If you celebrate or not, I hope you've had an amazing time over the past couple of days.

There was something unnerving about the sheer amount of Holmes’ in such a small space. Though, the space was hardly small in John’s experience, the house was larger than he was used to. Violet and Siger went all out with the decorations most of which were white and silver. There was something in each room and John counted at least three trees already: one in the study, the living room and the dining room. There was probably more. He’d have to count before he left or ask somebody at least. Sherlock would know.

“Everything ok, John?” Siger asked. He had a frosted glass in his hand with brandy in it.

John nodded. “I was just admiring your decorations.”

“Yes, Violet is rather,” he lowered his voice, “excitable at this time of year. It was worse knowing that both of the boys would be here and it’s Maeve’s first Christmas so she just went…overboard.”

“It looks beautiful.”

“Cost a fortune.”

“I bet.” John chuckled.

“Well, I would have argued with her if I thought that I would win but it’s better to let her get on with it.”

John nodded. “And that works?”

“Letting her win? Yes.” He sighed but a smile pulled at his lips. “She’s insufferable otherwise.”

“Maybe I’ll try that with Sherlock,” John said a little unconvincingly.

“No, you’re good for him and he has a big enough ego. We don’t need him thinking that he’s won every argument before it’s started. He’s bad enough as it is.”

“Cheers to that.” Their glasses clinked together.

  

* * *

 

 

Sherlock was admiring the hallway. His mother had decorated it beyond her usual standards. From the front door, leading into the house was an array of snowflake decorations that hung from the ceiling. It should have looked tacky but it was the right amount of elegance to offset the beauty of the house.

“Do you see them?” Sherlock asked his daughter.

Maeve gurgled in response as her eyes roamed over the ceiling.

The infant was wearing a small red dress that mimicked a Santa costume. It would have been cute had it not been exactly the opposite of what Sherlock would have dressed her in. The only good thing was that he had a spare set of clothes for her in the bag, ready for an ‘accidental’ spillage of food or drink.

His mother appeared at the end of the hallway. A small smile on her lips.

“Don’t smile.”

“Why?”

“It’s unnerving.”

“You’re such a Scrooge.” She crossed her arms over her chest and lent against the doorway.

Sherlock sighed. “If I’m Scrooge then Mycroft is Jacob Marley.”

Violet smiled at the reference. “I won’t agree to that.”

“Sparing his feelings,” Sherlock said and for the first time since he’d stepped into his parents’ house, he moved towards the party.

“Stop it you,” she scolded. “It’s my granddaughters first Christmas.”

“My daughter,” he reminded her.

“Don’t spoil it.”

“But you’re allowed to spoil my Christmas.”

Violet stepped aside to let him pass through the doorway and followed him. “And how exactly am I spoiling your Christmas?”

“I’m here and not solving a triple homicide.”

“Is there a triple homicide?”

“No,” he frowned, “there is a disappointing lack of interesting crime.”

“Aww, I’m sure something will come up.” She ran her hand down his arm.

It struck him how odd they would seem to an outsider. But now, just the two of them, the morbid curiosity that he’d always experienced and that she fostered from a young age, it was completely normal.

“You haven’t committed any interesting crimes recently, have you?” He turned to face his mother.

“You wouldn’t know if I had darling.” She hummed.

Ridiculous.

Sherlock sniffed.

“Go and say hello to the family.”

“What for?” He asked with the petulance of a three-year-old. Well, him as a three-year-old.

“They’re your family and I said so, go.”

“I hate you.” He said with no venom.

“You’ll get coal in your stocking.”

“Something he’s used to, I’m sure.” His cousin piqued up as he passed them. A smile on his face.

“Jasper, I will inform your mother that you lost your virginity to one of her friends.” Sherlock threatened.

Jasper stopped, his cheeks heating up. “You wouldn’t.”

Sherlock merely raised his eyebrow. Jasper looked at the ground and walked away.

“Sherlock.” His mother scolded when he was out of earshot.

“I’m just playing the part of Scrooge for you, mother dear.” He said with a pleased smile.

Violet was unimpressed but a small smile betrayed her. “Go and socialise.”

“Dull.”

 

* * *

 

 

“You took your time,” John said in a hushed tone as the consulting detective settled beside him.

“Merely admiring the Christmas decorations,” Sherlock said as his eyes settled on the wall.

“Or you’re avoiding spending time with your family.”

“I regret letting you move in with me, you’ve become _cocky.”_

John snorted. “Me, cocky? You’re the cocky one.”

“Let’s not be childish.” The consulting detective sniffed.

“I’m not the childish one here.”

“Yes, you are.”

“Your middle name is childish.”

Sherlock levelled him with a look. “My middle name is Sherlock.

“Yes, William Sherlock Childish Scott Holmes.”

“Who’s being childish now?” Sherlock retorted.

“Still you.”

“Boys, can’t you behave for a moment?” Greg asked. His face was alight with happiness and amusement, it was almost sickening.

“Lestrade,” Sherlock muttered a greeting.

“Greg,” John’s face broke into a smile and the two men shared a quick hug.

“Any interesting homicides?” Sherlock asked, breaking the moment.

“Nothing, sorry.” Greg scratched the side of his head. “I did ask Father Christmas but even he can’t work miracles all the time.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes at the joke.

John smiled.

“Where’s my brother?” Sherlock asked, changing the subject.

He knew that he was in the study taking a call.

“He’s on the phone.”

“All work, no play,” John said with a smirk.

“Something like that.” Lestrade smile was positively filthy.

Sherlock pressed the full body shiver that was threatening to manifest and ducked from between the men.

Disgusting.

“Where are you going?” John asked, voice threatening to crack into laughter.

 

* * *

  

Sherlock didn’t bother knocking.

He pulled the door open and strode into the office with a purpose.

Mycroft looked up with a frown. He was sat on the edge of the desk, his phone in his hand.

“Sherlock,” he said with a sigh.

“Happy Christmas Eve to you too brother,” Sherlock said with little conviction.

“Is there something you needed? Other than an excuse to leave?” Mycroft’s smile was all-knowing.

Sherlock closed the door behind him and placed Maeve on the floor. She immediately looked around the room before attempting to shuffle on her bum. He kept an eye on her in his peripheral vision as he looked at his brother and placed his hands on his hips.

“No international crisis?”

“Nothing major enough to warrant our absence,” he smiled but there was annoyance in his tone.

“The disappointment never ceases.”

“Precisely,” Mycroft pocketed his phone and stood up straight.

“Nothing short of a death will get me out of here now.” Sherlock dropped into the closest armchair. He placed his hand over his eyes but was sure to watch Maeve as she shuffled around on the floor. He hands were wandering over her own red skirt, feeling the fabric between her fingers.

“Not any death, it would have to be a close family member.” Mycroft corrected thoughtfully.

“Are you suggesting murder?” Sherlock dropped his hand far enough to look at his elder brother. There was hope sparkling in his eyes.

“Mentioning, not suggesting.”

“Pity. You’re the only person here capable of committing a half-decent murder. Well, you and mummy. Father has some possibility but his ego would let him down.” He went on.

“Quite.” Mycroft agreed and walked towards his niece. He dropped into a crouch in front of her and with a smile, he shifted her position so that she was on her belly on the floor. In this position, she could move easier.

“She’s not crawling yet,” Sherlock spoke up in a distant way.

“I’m aware.”

“Could ask for a Christmas miracle,” he suggested.

Mycroft frowned. “For which, Maeve learning to crawl or the murder of a family member.”

“Both.”

“We should go back in,” Mycroft said with no inclination to move.

“Yes, or we could stay in here for a while longer away from the inane drivel.”

“Mummy will come and find you.” Mycroft scooped up his niece and stood up.

“Be warned, she is a beacon of attention.” Sherlock levelled him with a serious look.

“I’m well aware.”

“Enjoy,” Sherlock called as Mycroft left the study.

  

* * *

 

 

Mycroft found his father next to the buffet table.

Siger frowned as he approached. “Where’s Sherlock?”

“Hiding,” Mycroft answered.

Siger rolled his eyes. “That boy.”

“He’s hardly a boy anymore.”

“No, but you two are my boys, that will never change.”

Mycroft chose not to dwell on the sentiment.

Maeve gurgled loudly. It was the perfect change of subject.

“She’s getting big now.”

Mycroft bit back the ‘babies do tend to do that’ remark.

“Yes, she’s still small though.” Mycroft chose his words carefully. She was much like Sherlock, a small baby.

“Yeah, can I have a hold?” Siger asked he looked uncertain.

“She is your granddaughter.”

Siger took the wiggling baby from his son and watched her face carefully. He looked torn, as though he were afraid that he was going to break her somehow and also, completely happy with her in his hands. She watched him as though she were interesting. If Mycroft were to describe it, he’d say that she looked as though she were watching a goldfish swim around a bowl.

“She’s almost…unnerving,” Siger said after a few moments.

“Much like her father.” Mycroft agreed with a tight smile.

Siger nodded. “Do you think she’ll want some food?”

“It’s best to wait for Sherlock.”

“Well, if he came out of hiding anytime soon.”

“He’ll be out soon, mummy went towards the study.”

Siger opened his mouth to respond but was interrupted by the appearance of his youngest son. He almost ran into the room before stopping at the threshold and running his hands down his jacket, smoothing the material beneath his fingers. Behind him, Violet Holmes appeared with a knowing look on her face.

Sherlock cleared his throat and strode towards his father and brother.

“Nice try,” Siger said quietly. It wouldn’t do for his wife to hear.

“Father suggested getting some food for Maeve.” Mycroft smiled.

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed and flickered to his father and then the large dining room table covered with food.

“Are there any children plates?” He asked.

His mother sighed. “She can have a normal plate.”

“And ruin the china.”

He was trying to get a rise.

“Use this,” his father used his free hand to pick up one of the smaller plates. It was a simple white china that was cheaper than the rest and for the use of the children.

Sherlock said nothing. He took the plate and pushed his way past them closer to the table. He took his time looking at all the possibilities before placing a few things on the plate for her. She was getting rather fond of finger food and his mother, unlike her usual spreads, had chosen some of what John would call classic party foods. When he was satisfied he glanced at his father and walked into the next room. There were a few looks in his direction but he paid no attention as he sat on the floor beside the sofa. He placed the plate on the coffee table and with a single look, his father passed over the infant.

He placed Maeve in the small chair that was waiting there for her. When she was in it. He offered her a cocktail sausage. She took it without hesitation and started chewing on it.

“She’s on finger foods now, how wonderful.” Petunia, his aunt said from the other side of the room.

Sherlock said nothing. He watched his daughter closely.

Edmund practically shouted. “I can’t believe it’s been…how long has it been since we’ve seen her?”

“One hundred and seventy-one days,” Sherlock articulated.

“She’s so big now.” He continued.

“Babies tend to do that,” he retorted.

His uncle didn’t take him any notice. “There’s a lot of you in her but not too much, I hope.”

“What do you mean?” His mother asked arms crossed over her chest.

“The boys have always been a bit of a strange one.”

It was like water off the ducks back to Sherlock.

His father, however, seemed particularly offended. “Edmund, that’s enough.”

“Come on.” Edmund chuckled.

Mycroft strode into the room without as much as a look at his aunt and uncle. Instead, he sat on the sofa that his brother was in front of and handed his niece another piece of food. She looked at it and him with the curiosity that always seemed to tinge her expression and love, the love only an infant can understand.

“Edmund is just saying,” Aunt Petunia piped up.

“And I’m just saying,” Siger said with force, “that sitting here insulting my son will not impress me or anybody here, it will alienate you from further events.”

“It’s just a joke,” Edmund was turning red.

“It always seems to be at his expense and I won’t have it anymore.”

There was a moment of tense silence.

“You’re quite right, I’m sorry.”

It was unconvincing.

 _Strange._ Sherlock was unused to his father defending him.

 

* * *

 

“Hey, you ok?” John asked as he found Sherlock again.

“Fine, why wouldn’t I be?” Sherlock asked. He instantly regretted it.

He sounded too defensive.

John shrugged. “Do you want to sneak out?”

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed.

It had to be a trap.

“Impossible. My mother insists on everybody opening a single present.”

“But after that, we can just slip out. I’m sure she won’t mind.”

Sherlock hummed in affirmation.

 

* * *

 

They were all in one room now, surrounding the largest tree in the house. His mother and father were handed out single presents to each person. Sherlock, wanting to keep away from the madness, was on the sofa with Maeve beside the other kids at the party. They were all watching him keenly. It was a habit.

Maeve was sat on his lap with his hand holding hers.

“I like her,” Sophia, his youngest niece said.

She was the most likeable of the bunch at six years old and wore a pink dress with rabbits on it.

“I like her too.” He nodded.

“I think she’s my new favourite.”

Sherlock craned his neck slightly. “Replacing me?”

Sophia nodded with the brutal honesty only a child could possess.

He feigned offence and sniffed. “To think you were my favourite.”

“I’m your favourite.” There was wonder in her tone.

“Not anymore.”

“Sherlock.” She groaned.

“Rest assured, you’re the best of the bunch.”

Sophia smiled and picked up the crayon she’d been using previously. The drawing was rather messy but it was clearly Father Christmas and his reindeer delivering gifts.

John smiled at him from across the room.

His mother placed the gift on the floor in front of him. It was large and clearly a device to help Maeve walk.

“You didn’t have to,” he said. It was customary.

“She’s my granddaughter. I’m allowed to spoil her.”

“I think it’s your job actually,” he smirked.

“Yes,” she said with a disproving tone but her smile betrayed her. “You can leave now.”

“There will be no repercussions?” He asked.

“None at all, enjoy the rest of your Christmas Eve and your Christmas.”

“We’ll see you on boxing day.” He assured her.

Violet nodded and ran her finger over Maeve’s cheek. “Merry Christmas.”

 

* * *

 

Baker Street was quiet in comparison. The streets outside were almost abandoned and a trickle of snow appeared in the sky. The flat was alight with decorations and Sherlock wasted no time in taking his daughter to bed. He made sure that she was sufficiently warm and after changing her into Christmas pyjamas, he placed the sleeping infant into her cot. Her snores quickly filled the room and he left her, with the monitor watching.

Downstairs, John had put on an elaborate show with crumbs on a plate with a half-eaten carrot and empty glass. He was in the act of putting crumbs on the floor leading to the fireplace as Sherlock came down.

“How does it look?” He asked, straightening up.

“Perfect,” Sherlock answered honestly.

“She’ll sleep through tonight.”

“I have no doubt.”

“Right, presents?”

Sherlock nodded and retrieved the presents that he’d been storing in the spare room. There was a sizable amount but he couldn’t bring himself to feel bad, it was his daughters first Christmas after all. They took some time arranging things and John retrieved some bags before they both took a step back and admired their work.

“Ready?”

“Ready.”

 

* * *

 

It was unlike any other Christmas day. Sherlock woke up and resisted the urge to roll over and close his eyes. Instead he blinked until he could focus properly and concentrated on the sounds around him. John was still sleeping, a light sleep and through the faint crackle of the baby monitor he could hear Maeve’s soft breathing as she slept on.  Usually, his Christmas day routine consisted of sleeping until even that became boring before indulging in some mince pies and his violin. It wasn’t exactly glamorous but it was routine.

Now, his mind was racing with all the possibilities today could bring.

Maeve’s first Christmas. It had to be perfect.

He climbed out of bed with the stealth of a jungle cat and retrieved the presents he’d hidden under a loose floorboard. Satisfied that John was still asleep he crept into the living room and placed them beneath the tree beside the other gifts. Next, he went upstairs and picked Maeve up. He made sure that she didn’t wake and carried her back downstairs, he climbed back into bed with her.

John stirred and opened one eye.

He groaned and buried his head in the pillow.

“megsghf hffhfcihfhf.” He groaned.

“Excuse me?” Sherlock asked with a smirk.

It was incredibly endearing.

John lifted his head, “Merry Christmas.”

“Merry Christmas.”

“How is her ladyship?” The blonde’s voice was rough with sleep.

“She is not a lady,” Sherlock said simply. His hand ran down his daughter’s back.

“No, I suppose I shouldn’t joke about that around you. You’re probably a duke or something.” John turned onto his side so that he could watch his partner and daughter. He fought back a yawn.

“Not anymore.” His smile was practically evil.

John stared at him blankly. “I’m going to need some coffee.”

“You know where it is.”

“It’s Christmas.” John groaned much like a child.

“And I should bow to your every whim?”

“Well, no but you could make me a coffee for once.”

“I make you coffee.”

“When you want something.”

“And you shall cherish each cup.”

John snorted.

Sherlock smiled.

“Shall we get up?” John yawned again.

“In a minute.”

“Ok.” He closed his eyes and placed one hand atop of Sherlock’s on Maeve’s back.

 

* * *

 

Twenty-three minutes later found the consulting detective and blogger sat on the floor of the living room with their backs against their chairs and Maeve between them, sat down with her legs slightly crossed. They were all still in their pyjamas. Sherlock was wearing the deep red silk bottoms and dressing gown he tended to favour at this time of the year with a charcoal grey top, inside out as per usual. John’s pyjamas were a red tartan which he wore with a thin jumper of the same colour and Maeve wore a set that John had bought her, it consisted of white and grey striped bottom with a white long sleeve top decorated with snowflakes.

Maeve was chewing on one of her rusk biscuits.

Sherlock ignored the way chunks of biscuit and dribble coated her fist.

He sipped his coffee. It was delicious. The perfect start to his morning, that and the company.

“So, what do you want to do first?” John asked.

Sherlock frowned.

John explained, “I know you don’t really celebrate Christmas and neither do I, not really, but you want this to be perfect for her. I’m not sure I can manage perfect but I think together, we can do well enough. So, what do you want to do? How are we going to kick off this day?”

There was a beat of silence.

“We have to open the presents.”  

“Of course.” The smile on John’s face could light the whole room.

“Lunch.”

“Right, and where are we getting that from?”

“Mrs Hudson.”

“I thought she was going to her sisters.”

“She’s taking the train tomorrow.”

John nodded. “Anything else? What does Sherlock Holmes want to do this Christmas?”

“Go for a walk.”

“Right, then that’s what we’ll do.”

 

* * *

 

They didn’t start opening the presents beneath the tree until everybody was fed and the empty coffee cups were cleaned away. John took a small gift from the front of the pile and placed it in front of Maeve. With some encouragement from them both, she opened it to reveal a small soft toy penguin.

Many gifts later, there was a clear winner with Maeve having the most presents. Most of which were toys or clothes of some sort. There were some fun gifts and others that were touching. A framed picture of the three of them at London zoo. A silver rattle. The best perhaps was the small collection of shoes ready for her to start walking.

Maeve was busy playing with a small wooden hammer that she whacked against a small building set. As one block went down another came up and so forth, keeping her attention.

Sherlock sniffed and picked up the gifts he’d placed under the tree for John.

John looked a little surprised. “You bought me a present?”

“I’m not a monster John.” Sherlock scoffed, “I understand that some traditions, such as the buying of gifts, though extremely superficial are necessary.”

“Can I?” He gestured.

“I didn’t wrap them just so you could stare at them.”

John smirked and opened the first present. It was a long rectangle box with a very expensive stethoscope inside with the engraving ‘my heart’. John stared at it for a few moments. It would have been painful to watch if Sherlock hadn’t known that he was completely delighted with it.

“It’s…beautiful.” He managed a few seconds later.

Sherlock gave a slight nod.

“You…this must have cost a fortune.”

“Let’s not talk about money,” Sherlock suggested.

John nodded but wasn’t entirely convinced.

“Thank you.”

“Every doctor needs a good set of equipment.” Sherlock frowned. “Innuendo not intended.”

John chuckled. “Thank you, Sherlock.”

“The next one.” Sherlock nodded towards the other box.

John showed the care only an adult would when opening his present. It revealed a plate Maeve’s handprints on and the next was a matching mug. The last present was the most precious. It was a single printed picture in a small frame of Sherlock Holmes sat on Father Christmas’s lap with Maeve. The consulting detective didn’t necessarily look happy but his face made the picture.

“This is amazing.” John blurted out. “Wow.”

“Cherish it,” Sherlock told him. He left the ‘it will never happen again’ unspoken.

John nodded and place the picture on the table beside his armchair. “So, time for your presents.”

Sherlock said nothing.

John retrieved the present.

Sherlock managed to remain silent as he opened it. They were obviously books. He was surprised to see the old battered leather-bound books.

“ _De humani corporis fabrica”_ Sherlock whispered.

“Thought you’d like them.” John’s lip curled into a smile.

“They’re perfect.”

“I thought you didn’t like that word.” He teased.

Sherlock looked up at him but there was no annoyance there, just fondness.

“So, I did ok then?”

“More than ok.” Sherlock ran his hand over the books.

“Good enough for a kiss?”

The consulting detective’s expression turned playful as he scolded, “not in front of Maeve.”

“Later.”

“Later.”

 

* * *

 

Mrs Hudson appeared sometime later with her own presents. It was a bundle of hand knitted jumpers, cardigans and toys. The boys had bought her a new scarf, brooch and a framed picture of her and Maeve.

“Boys, you shouldn’t have.”

“It was our pleasure,” John assured her as he passed her a small sherry.

“The lunch will be ready soon.”

“There’s no rush Mrs Hudson.”

Sherlock was plucking his violin strings as they talked.

Maeve was shuffling around the floor in the beginning stages of a crawl.

“She’s getting mobile now.” Mrs Hudson said fondly.

“Yes, soon she’ll be unstoppable.” John chuckled.

Mrs Hudson smiled down at the infant and turned to Sherlock. “It’s a shame you’re not seeing your parents today. They’ll miss you.”

“I saw them yesterday.” Sherlock paused in his ministrations. “And will see them tomorrow.”

“And what about Mycroft? I don’t like the thought of him alone at Christmas.”

“He is spending the Christmas season with his fiancé.”

“They’re back together?” She looked far happier than anybody should receiving that disturbing information.

“Yes. Sickening, isn’t it?” He looked disgusted.

“You got them back together,” John said.

There was confusion written over his face.

“I made them talk.” Sherlock corrected, “they decided to get back together all on their own.”

“That was nice of you Sherlock.” Mrs Hudson told him with the look one might give a dog that followed an order and got a treat in return.

“You were smug the other day.”

“You are mistaken, John.”

“And you’re a liar Sherlock Holmes.”

“Oh boys, what are you like?” Mrs Hudson asked the room.

 

* * *

 

After a dinner that was big enough to feed a family of seven the boys helped to tidy away and then left the flat for their Christmas day walk. The sky was white and threatening snow.

It was cold outside but they were wrapped up warm.

The park was empty except for the occasional dog walker.

“Want to head back?” John asked when Sherlock’s eyebrow twitched for the third time.

“A little longer.” He said quietly.

Maeve was on the verge of sleep.

Another ten minutes would ensure that she not wake.

Ten minutes later, they were back at the flat putting a sleeping Maeve into her cot and settling down for a film at John’s insistence. It was an old carry on film. Sherlock didn’t complain, not even when John moved closer and leaned against him. He didn’t complain, actually he quite liked it.

 

* * *

 

“John,” Sherlock said a little louder this time.

The ex-army doctor frowned in his sleep and opened his eyes to reveal Sherlock standing beside the bed, hovering above him like a vulture.

“What?” He croaked.

“Snow.”

“What?” The blonde sat up slightly and wiped his eyes.

“It’s snowing.” He repeated.

“It’s snowing,” John said slowly. He didn’t need the lights on to see the eye roll he received.

“Get dressed,” Sherlock said in his ‘don’t be an idiot’ tone.

It was then that John noticed the awake infant in his partner’s arms. She was swaddled in a snow suit and looking rather awake despite the hour. Sherlock was wearing his coat and clothes too. He swept out of the room. John turned to look at the clock on the bedside table. It flashed.

Two thirty in the morning.

Sherlock was crazy and no longer in the flat.

John jumped out of bed and wrestled the closest jeans and coat.

Sherlock was stood on the side of the street looking up at the sky.

The snow was small but fast. It had already settled on the ground.

There were footprints leading from the door.

“Sherlock,” John said quietly.

The city was silent.

Sherlock didn’t respond.

Sherlock cursed inwardly and pulled the door. He left it ajar and walked down to stand beside Sherlock.

Maeve eye’s seemed to be fixed on one piece of snow. She watched it fall and when it got too low she looked up and followed another piece with her eyes. Sherlock watched her with fond eyes.

“You’re an idiot.” John sighed.

Sherlock frowned in mock offence.

“And a child.” He added.

“It’s snowing.”

“Yes, it is.” John looked up at the sky.

“Merry Christmas John.”

“Merry Christmas Sherlock.”


	64. Two Hundred and Forty Two Days Old

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Boxing day with the family.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys, another chapter, the day after the last? Is this real? I'm not sure what's happening, it might be a Christmas miracle. I've now caught up with all my plans for this fic so I'm going to have to do some planning before I continue writing or else we'll be in such a pickle. 
> 
> I promise that Sherlock is ok in this chapter, he doesn't regret becoming a father or resent Maeve in the slightest but as we know, he has an addictive personality and is often bored. So, time away may help. 
> 
> GUYS, I don't want to scare you but there's only 36 chapter left until this fic is over and done with, I'm actually getting a little bit emotional about all of this. It's so close to the end, yet so far. 
> 
> So, I want to set myself a kind of deadline to get this done by June, if not sooner. What do you think? Think I can do it?

“That was disgusting,” John announced as he strolled into the living room with Maeve in his arms. From his expression, one might think he’d just returned from a particularly gruesome crime scene and not changing his daughter’s nappy.

“It’s just excrement,” Sherlock said from his position on the sofa.

“But she’s eating solids now and they’re more…fully formed.”

“Healthy.” He corrected.

“They smell worse.”

“At least they’re not projectile.”

A flicker of fear passed over Johns' face. He had a point.

“Here is your lovely clean daughter.” John placed the squirming bundle of a baby on Sherlock’s stomach and went back to his previous position at the desk, typing on his computer.

“Clean,” he arched an eyebrow in an exaggerated manner at the baby. “I doubt it.”

Maeve’s lips tugged into a smile.

“What time does your mum want us around?” John asked with a small frown.

“Mycroft is taking us,” Sherlock said simply. He pulled a goofy face at Maeve.

She giggled in response.

Sherlock smiled at her and tickled her small sock-clad feet.

The giggling intensified.

“Don’t get her too excited,” John said almost to himself.

“Me?” Sherlock feigned outrage.

“You don’t want her sleepy later.”

“Not until the appropriate time,” Sherlock said thoughtfully. Then he changed the subject, “blogging again.”

“Well, there’s been some comments about me not uploading anything though they seem more interested in her ladyship than the actual cases.” His tone went from pensive to mildly peeved.

“Give the people what they want.” Sherlock twisted his body and stood up with Maeve in his arms in one swift, solid movement.

“You hate me blogging.”

“Yes, you tend to choose romance over fact through your prose is admirable and the attention to detail is there in some moments of clarity. Give them the facts, nothing more or less. They’ll stop asking and you can write about whatever mystery you chose with your eponymous hero.”

“It’s the personal blog of Dr John H. Watson not the life and times of Sherlock Holmes.”

Sherlock scowled at him. “My name is mentioned more than yours.”

“Because people are always saying it in an annoyed or angry manner.”

“Don’t make people into heroes John-”

John cut him off in a bored tone, “they don’t exist, and if they did, I wouldn’t be one of them.”

“John.”

“What?” The blonde turned to him. “You may not think you’re a hero and many people would agree with you but you do save the day quite a lot.”

“I solve crimes.”

“You help people. I know you don’t like thinking of it as that but you do. You helped me when we first met.”

“I like to think that you aided me somewhat,” Sherlock said in a hushed tone.

“Well, I am your _assistant_.” His brows raised in disapproval at the word.

“I’m not talking about the work.” He said pointedly.

John frowned and then realisation dawn. “Oh, well, yeah. I guess I have softened you up a bit. You used to be a right dickhead.”

Sherlock’s nostrils flared at the choice of words.

“Well, you still are but you’re not as bad as before, that is for sure.” John continued.

“It’s Christmas. You’re supposed to be nice to me.”

“Don’t take it personally.” John turned his attention back to the laptop. “I love you.”

“Whatever.” Sherlock sulked.

 

* * *

 

 

Mycroft stopped on the threshold. The barrier across the door was closed and inside the room his brother was sat reading the paper with his daughter on his lap, chewing on a soft toy. She was so absorbed in it she didn’t even notice him. John looked up from his laptop with a small smile.

“Mycroft,” he greeted.

“Apologies for the time, there were matters that needed to be dealt with. The car is waiting.”

No small talk today then.

John nodded and closed his laptop.

Sherlock took no notice of him.

“Sherlock.” John prompted.

The consulting detective sighed and dropped his newspaper.

“Come, Sherlock, let’s not make this harder than it has to be,” Mycroft told him.

Sherlock rose to his feet, crossed the room and handed his daughter to Mycroft.

“Aww, thank you,” Mycroft muttered as he turned his daughter to face him.

She smiled at him.

“Hello. Did you have a good Christmas?”

Maeve babbled in response.

“Yes,” he nodded as though she had said something coherent.

John picked up the bags of presents from beneath the tree and gave Sherlock a look. “Get your coat on you ninny or we’ll never go and your mother will phone and I’ll blame you.”

“I always get the blame.”

“You’re always to blame.” John corrected.

Mycroft bit back a smile. “He’s quite right, the sooner we go, the sooner we can leave.

“Fine.” Sherlock pulled his coat on.

 

* * *

 

 

Sherlock sat, staring at his mother as she fussed around Maeve, showing her each present before opening it and allowing the seven-month-old to run her hands over it before moving onto the next.

It was painful, being there, watching them all interact. It was too much. Christmas had been perfect when it was just the three of them, with John and Maeve he didn’t have to pretend. He could just be himself. He could literally wake John up in the middle of the night for any reason and the blonde wouldn’t hold it against him even if the blonde did protest sometimes.

He wasn’t sure what he should do. Unsurety was not a feeling he was used to.

There was only two option. He could excuse himself or wait until he snapped.

Neither seemed desirable.

Mycroft was watching him intently.

Damn him.

“Sherlock, did you want to open the last one with her?” His mother asked.

“No, you can do it.” He cleared his throat.

His mother plucked up the last of the many presents and began her routine again.

“If you’ll excuse me,” he muttered before rising to his feet and leaving the room.

Nobody took any notice.

Except Mycroft but Sherlock didn’t stop until he was at the back door. He unlocked it and stepped outside. The cool air hit him like a brick wall. The first inhale was painful, the cold air filling his lungs as it caressed his body. It could have been colder though, he supposed. The snow was settled now. His parent’s garden was completely white. It would have been magical if not for the noise in his head.

“Don’t tell John.” Mycroft’s hand settled next to his face. Between his long fingers was a single cigarette.

“It’s not low tar, is it?” He asked, feigning annoyance. It was clear to the both of them he was grateful.

“Not this time,” Mycroft closed the door as he stepped outside. His black leather shows quashing the snow beneath his feet. He watched his feet sink slightly before looking out at the garden.

“It’s this time of year.” He explained as placed the cigarette on his lips.

Mycroft offered a lighter and he lent forward to ignite it.

“It’s overwhelming enough for normal people, so I’m told.” Mycroft frowned and pocketed the lighter.

Sherlock exhaled hot dragon’s breath.

“You can have her for the new year.” Sherlock changed the subject.

Mycroft’s brow rose for a second and he pushed his hands into his pocket. “You don’t want her?”

“I’m going to be out of the country.”

“A case?”

“A string of murders in Paris. The police haven’t even realised they’re connected yet. Worth a look.”

“And you want me to have her.” Mycroft looked at the snow on the ground.

“I want her safe. She’s safe with you.”

“I may be busy with work.”

“I trust you,” Sherlock said sternly.

“It’s never a problem, having her.” Mycroft cleared his throat.

“An inconvenience but never a problem.”

Mycroft smiled. “Yes, like most things.”

“I will be gone a couple of days at most.” The cigarette was burning between his fingers.

“If she starts crawling I do not want to be held responsible.”

“But you’re always to blame,” Sherlock smiled for the first time since he came into the house. “Hasn’t been a big brother taught you anything?”

 

* * *

 

 

It was only after their lunch that Sherlock could finally relax with Maeve in his arms. She was drooping against his shoulder already, not even fighting the urge to sleep. The past few days had tired her out and the need for her daytime naps was increasing with each hour.

“Your mother really appreciates you coming over.” His father said in a hushed tone.

“I know.” It came out rather snappish.

His father didn’t react. He crossed his arms.

Sherlock kissed the top of his daughter’s head and breathed in the reassuring scent that was her.

“Go then or your mother won’t let you go until Christmas Eve next year.”

 

* * *

 

 

There was something calm about the flat. 

It was theirs.

A sanctuary of sorts.

Maeve was asleep on the sofa next to John. John was also asleep, his head lolled to the side.

Sherlock was corresponding with the Parisian police, well, he was corresponding with them in the hopes of working the case though he doubted they’d take it seriously until he appeared in person.

It would do them all some good, being apart.

Maeve with Mycroft.

Sherlock in Paris.

John with his parents.

What was the worst that could happen?


	65. Two Hundred and Fifty One Days Old

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock is back from Pairs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, lovelies, I know I haven't updated in a while but I've been crazy busy with work and super unmotivated to write which such because I love writing this so much. BUT I finally sat down and tried to write and this chapter happened. It's not that long but it is something and that's a start. I hope you enjoy it and stay on the lookout because there will be more soon, much more. Well, I kind of need to plan the next 45 chapters but after that, there will be more.

The car door slammed shut.

“How was Paris?” Mycroft’s fingers tightened around the handle of his umbrella.

“I will not dignify that with an answer,” Sherlock fought back a wince and wet his lip, careful as his tongue ran over the cut that ran down his plump bottom lip. There was some swelling too and a small bruise but it didn’t compare to the bruise on his cheek and cut stitched together on his forehead.

Mycroft raised his eyebrow but said nothing in response.

Sherlock slid across the leather seat towards his sleeping daughter.

“I assume, since you didn’t call, that there wasn’t anything I should be concerned about.” He left the “in regard to Maeve” silent.

“She was fine.”

“Only fine?”

“She’s eight months old, she hardly spent the whole time crying about your absence.”

Sherlock fixed his brother with a dark look. “She’s noticed my absence.”

“As much as her mind can grasp.” Mycroft smiled, the fake kind.

“She’s enjoyed her time with you.” It was an observation.

“Yes.” He confirmed.

“Anything else?”

“No.”

“Nothing that I should know about?”

Mycroft cleared his throat. “She started crawling.”

Sherlock said nothing.

“I warned you, I will not be held responsible.”

“I don’t hold you responsible.”

“You can’t blame her either.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, I wouldn’t hold it against my daughter.”

 

* * *

 

 

Mycroft hung around the flat for longer than necessary. It was obvious that he was worried about leaving Sherlock alone with Maeve after his trip. After his second cup of tea, he seemed satisfied enough and left, promising to return later with her belongings.

“So,” Sherlock turned to his daughter. “You started crawling.”

Maeve was sleepy but awake. Her eyes clouded as she stared up at him.

“You promised that you would wait until I got home before you started crawling. I have to be there for all important milestones, that was the deal.”

Maeve yawned.

“It was a non-verbal agreement but an agreement none the less. How am I supposed to trust you if you can’t keep a simple promise?” He sighed, “you uncle will hold this over me until the end of time. I know there’s no way that we can be here until the end of time but I’m exaggerating for effect, obviously.”

Maeve blinked up at him from her position propped up on the sofa.

“These conversations are awfully one-sided. When are you going to start talking?” He raised an eyebrow at her and dropped down into a crouch in front of the sofa. “Soon, I should hope. Though, you must wait until you’re with me and your first word must be ‘daddy’, agreed?”

Maeve opened her mouth.

“I’ll take that as your agreement. If you break this agreement I reserve the right to wake you up at all hours.”

Maeve gargled.

“You do it to me so it’s only fair.”

  

* * *

 

 

“Anybody home?” John called as he climbed up the stairs.

“In here,” Sherlock called back. He has his back to the door but knew the moment the shorter man crossed the threshold into the living room. He was cradling Maeve in his arms. It struck him how much bigger she was now. The first time he held her in his arms she’d been tiny. He’d been able to hold her in one arm with no trouble and now, now she was a handful. She was in the midst of waking up from a sleep.

“I hear you had some trouble in Paris.”

“Nothing major.” Sherlock turned to face John.

The doctor’s eyes scanned over his injuries, from the split lip and bruised cheek to the less obvious one beneath his close. His eyes flicked back to his face. “Are you in any pain?”

“None at all.”

“Glad to be home?”

Sherlock nodded.

“It was kind of sudden, you jetting off to Paris.”

“It was for a case.” Sherlock frowned and continued to bounce his daughter gently.

“I know. I’m surprised you didn’t ask me to come along.”

“It’s not an issue, is it?”

“No.” John’s eyes were soft but unyielding, much like the man himself.

“You had already made arrangements with your parents.”

“Yes, and it was lovely seeing them again.”

“But,” Sherlock said for him.

“No but. You wrapped up your case and I got to see my folks.”

“And you’re not angry.” The confusion was written all over his face.

John shook his head. “Do you want me to go and get some shopping?”

“I’ll go.”

“You hate shopping.”

“It’s dull but a necessity.”

“Right, well, I’m going to unpack. I’ll come with you to get the shopping and you can tell me all about your case over dinner. Tea?”

“Please.”

 

* * *

 

 

There was a reason why Sherlock hated the supermarket so much.

The people.

They were everywhere.

“We should start eating better,” John said absentmindedly as he bagged some carrots and placed them into the trolley.

“We eat perfectly fine.”

“We survive on takeaways.”

“Is this some kind of New Year’s Resolution?”

“I just thought that with a baby in the house, there was no better time than the present to start eating a little healthier. Plus, you don’t want her to grow up eating Chinese food.”

“Why not?” Sherlock frowned at him.

John shrugged. “IT’s important for her to have a healthy diet in order to grow up strong.”

“Ignore him,” Sherlock muttered to the baby in the trolley seat. “He’s having a crisis.”

“Am not.” The blonde grumbled as they continued down the aisle.

“He is.”

Maeve wrestled with the plastic keys in her hands.

“I was thinking of making something for dinner tonight.”

“I wish to avoid an argument John but you don’t cook.”

“I do.”

“You cook simple, comfort foods.”

“That’s cooking.”

“Well, tonight I’m making us pasta.”

“A particular kind?”

“Yes, spaghetti bolognese. From scratch.”

“Right.”

“I thought Maeve might like to try it.”

“Yes, apparently she loves to try new things.

John stopped in the aisle and turned to him. “You’re not upset about her crawling, are you?”

“I’m not sure upset is the correct word,” Sherlock started in his usual pedantic way. “Annoyed.”

“Hurt.” He corrected.

“Well, it’s not like she meant it.”

“She planned the whole thing.” He grumbled.

“I’m sure she did, dear.”

Sherlock frowned. “Did you just call me dear?”

John picked up some tomatoes. “I think I’ve spent too much time with my mum.”

 

* * *

  

John placed a glass of red wine on the coffee table in front of the consulting detective.

“Is my doctor recommending this?” Sherlock’s brow raised elegantly.

“Yes, he is.” John sat down with a smile.

“You want to talk.” He observed.

John nodded. “Tell me about the case.”

“It started as a murder but turned out to be far more interesting.”

“I didn’t think a simple murder would take you out of the country.”

“An attempted heist.”

“Are you going to tell me about it or just leave me in suspense?” John asked.

“You were under the impression that we would be spending New Year’s Eve together.”

 “I thought it was a possibility.”

“You’re upset that I left you behind.”

“No.”

“That I didn’t invite you,” he corrected.

“No.”

“You’re not upset?”

“No.” John looked into his glass. “I did think that you might talk to me before deciding to rush off on a case alone in another country.”

“I didn’t think it would be an issue.”

“You didn’t care that it would be an issue.” John corrected. “You got overwhelmed and you ran.”

“I didn’t run.”

“You told your brother to look after your daughter and you left without as much as a word.”

“I told you that I had a case,” Sherlock argued.

“As you walked out of the door.”

“It wasn’t like that.”

John shifted in his seat. “I don’t want to argue with you, Sherlock. I just want you to understand that what you did was….well, it was a bit not good.”

There was silence.

After a moment the consulting detective seemed to find his words.

“I know.” He was looking at his hands. 

“You know?” John’s brow wrinkled in confusion.

“I know that it was wrong of me to leave. It wasn’t about you or Maeve, it never could be.”

“Your parents.” John deduced.

“Our relationship has always been strained.”

John’s eyes widened slightly. “It was about them.”

“I- my parents and I haven’t spent this amount of time together in years. Our relationship is better, stronger now than it ever has been but being around them now reminds me of who I was then and it makes my head, louder, harder to ignore than before. This case seemed like the only way to stop that.”

“And did it?”

“No, if anything, it made it worse. I couldn’t get you out of my head.”

“Well,” John sipped at his wine. “Flattery isn’t going to get you anywhere.”

“It’s not flattery.”

“No, I suppose not.”

“I’m new to this whole relationship thing but I will endeavour to do better.” Sherlock cleared his throat.

“Well, I can’t ask for more than that.”

“I would like to make it up to you if I can.”

John pursed his lips. “Well, if you insist.”


End file.
